LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


/ 


FEMALE  PROSE  WRITERS. 


; 


sr 


-scvT.  5i 


?.hilad«if»Hia 

PublishedbrKH.Butl 


THE 


FEMALE  PKOSE  WRITERS 


OP 


AMEKICA. 


WITH   PORTRAITS,   BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICES,    AND 
SPECIMENS   OF   THEIR   WRITINGS. 


BY  JOHN  S.  HART,  LL.D. 


tuttl; 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY  E.  H.  BUTLER  &  CO. 
1852. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851,  by 

E.   H.   BUTLER   &   CO., 

in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PREFACE. 

THE  unwonted  favour  extended  to  "  Head's  Female  Poets  of 
America,"  led  to  the  belief  that  a  work  on  the  Female  Prose 
Writers,  constructed  on  a  similar  plan,  would  be  not  unacceptable 
to  the  public. 

In  the  preparation  of  the  biographies,  much  difficulty  has  been 
experienced.  Few  things  are  more  intangible  and  elusive,  than 
the  biography  of  persons  still  living,  and  yet,  in  the  case  of  those  who 
have  pleased  us  by  their  writings,  few  things  are  more  interesting. 
It  seems  to  be  an  instinctive  desire  of  the  human  heart,  on  becom 
ing  acquainted  with  any  work  of  genius,  to  know  something  of  its 
author.  Nor  is  this  mere  idle  curiosity.  It  is  a  part  of  that 
homage,  which  every  mind  rightly  constituted,  spontaneously  offers 
to  whatever  is  great  or  good.  This  feeling  of  personal  interest  in 
an  author  who  has  moved  us,  is  greatly  increased  where,  as  in  the 
case  of  most  female  writers,  the  subjects  of  which  they  write,  are 
chiefly  of  an  emotional  nature,  carrying  with  them  on  every  page 
the  unmistakeable  impress  of  personal  sympathy,  if  not  experience. 
Women,  far  more  than  men,  write  from  the  heart.  Their  own 
likes  and  dislikes,  their  feelings,  opinions,  tastes,  and  sympathies  are 
so  mixed  up  with  those  of  their  subject,  that  the  interest  of  the 

(7) 

224197 


viii  P  R  E  F  A  C  E . 

reader  is  often  enlisted  quite  as  much  for  the  writer,  as  for  the 

hero,  of  a  tale. 

Knowing,  therefore,  how  general  is  this  desire  to  become  ac 
quainted  with  the  personal  history  of  authors,  I  have  taken  special 
pains,  in  preparing  a  work  on  the  Female  Prose  Writers  of  the 
country,  to  make  the  biographical  sketches  as  full  and  minute  as 
circumstances  would  justify,  or  the  writers  themselves  would  allow. 
The  work  contains  two  charming  pieces  of  autobiography,  now 
appearing  for  the  first  time,  from  two  long-established  favourites 
with  the  public,  Miss  Leslie  and  Mrs.  Oilman.  In  almost  all  cases 
the  information  has  been  obtained  directly  by  correspondence  with 
the  authors,  or  their  friends.  "Where  this  has  failed,  recourse  has 
been  had  to  the  best  printed  authorities.  The  work,  it  is  believed, 
will  be  found  to  contain  an  unusual  amount  of  authentic  informa 
tion,  and  on  subjects  where  authentic  information  is  equally  desir 
able  and  difficult  to  obtain. 

The  task  of  making  selections  has  not  been  easy.  I  have  studied, 
as  far  as  possible,  to  select  passages  characteristic  of  the  different 
styles  of  each  writer,  and  at  the  same  time  to  present  the  reader 
with  an  agreeable  variety. 

Those  who  have  not  been  led  professionally,  or  otherwise,  to  exa 
mine  the  subject  particularly,  will  probably  be  surprised  at  the 
evidences  of  the  rapid  growth  of  literature,  among  American  women, 
during  the  present  generation.  When  Hannah  Adams  first  published 
her  "View  of  all  Religions,"  so  rare  was  the  example  of  a  woman 
who  could  write  a  book,  that  she  was  looked  upon  as  one  of  the 
wonders  of  the  Western  world.  Learned  men  of  Europe  sought  her 
acquaintance,  and  entered  into  correspondence  with  her.  Yet  now, 
less  than  twenty  years  since  the  death  of  Hannah  Adams,  a  pon 
derous  volume  of  nearly  five  hundred  pages  is  hardly  sufficient  to 
enrol  the  names,  and  give  a  few  brief  extracts  from  each  of  our 
female  writers,  who  have  already  adorned  the  annals  of  literature 


PREFACE.  ix 

by  their  prose  writings,  to  say  nothing  of  the  numerous  and  not  less 
distinguished  sisterhood,  who  have  limited  themselves  to  poetry. 

A  word  in  regard  to  the  portraits.  These  have  been  made, 
wherever  it  was  practicable,  from  original  paintings  or  drawings, 
recently  executed,  so  as  to  give  a  likeness  of  the  author  as  she  is 
now.  That  of  Margaret  Fuller  is  from  a  portrait  by  Hicks,  copied 
from  an  original  painted  by  himself  in  Rome,  during  her  residence 
in  that  city,  and  considered  by  her  friends,  there  and  here,  an  excel 
lent  likeness.  The  portrait  of  Mrs.  Hentz  is  from  a  miniature, 
painted  last  year  by  her  husband,  who  is  an  artist.  Mrs.  Kirkland's 
is  from  a  crayon  drawing  by  Martin,  and  Mrs.  Neal's  from  a  crayon 
drawing  by  Furness,  both  made  expressly  for  the  work.  The  others 
are,  with  one  exception,  from  recent  likenesses,  redrawn  by  Croome. 
All  of  these  have  been  engraved  in  London,  in  the  light  and  grace 
ful  style  most  generally  approved  for  heads.  The  illuminated  fron 
tispiece  and  title-page  were  designed  by  Mr.  Devereux,  who  has 
done  so  much,  by  his  skill,  to  make  the  productions  of  literature  at 
the  same  time  specimens  of  art. 


CONTENTS. 


CATHERINE  M.  SEDGWICK :  PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 17 

MAGNETISM  AMONG   THE    SHAKERS 19 

THE   SABBATH  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 24 

ELIZA  LESLIE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICE 26 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY 27 

MRS.  DERRINGTON'S  RECEPTION  DAY 32 

CAROLINE  GILMAN: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 49 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY          ............  49 

SARAH  HALL- 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 58 

ON  FASHION 60 

MARIA  J.  McINTOSH: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 63 

TWO   PORTRAITS            ............  69 

LYDIA  H.  SIG-OURNEY; 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 76 

THE   LOST   CHILDREN             ...........  84 

I   HAVE   SEEN  AN  END   OP   ALL   PERFECTION 90 

SARAH  J.  HALE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICE 93 

FROM  "WOMAN'S  RECORD" 95 

THE   MODE 96 

LOUISA  C.  TUTHILL: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 100 

DOMESTIC    ARCHITECTURE   IN   THE    UNITED    STATES 103 

CAROLINE  M.  KIRKLAND : 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICE 105 

THE    MYSTERY    OF   VISITING 106 

(ID 


xii  CONTENTS. 

LYDIA  M.  CHILD :  PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 110 

OLE    BUL 118 

THE   UMBRELLA   GIRL 122 

EMMA  0.  EMBURY: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICE 128 

TWO  FACES  UNDER  ONE  HOOD 129 

MARY  S.  B.  SHINDLER: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 142 

A    DAY   IN   NEW   YORK 147 

CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICE 151 

AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP  BAG 154 

HANNAH  ADAMS: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 161 

THE    GNOSTICS  ............  162 

ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET : 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE          ...........  166 

MARY    SLOCUMB 167 

E.  OAKES  SMITH: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 178 

THE    MYSTERY    OP   THE    MOUNTAIN 179 

THE   ANGEL   AND    THE    MAIDEX 183 

LOUISA  S.  McCORD: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 187 

THE    RIGHT   TO    LABOUR 187 

ANN  S.  STEPHENS : 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE  ..........         193 

THE    QUILTING    PARTY 194 

FRANCES  S.  OSGOOD. 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 200 

THE    MAGIC    LUTE .  .    201 

ELIZABETH  C.  KINNEY : 

BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTICE 208 

OLD    MAIDS 209 

THE    SONNET .            .            .            .  211 

HARRIET  FARLEY : 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICE >  215 

ABBY'S  YEAR  IN  LOWELL 217 

MARY  H.  EASTMAN: 

BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTICE 226 

SHAH-CO-PEE;  THE  ORATOR  OF  THE  sioux  .         .        .  227 

S.  MARGARET  FULLER: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE          .  .  .  nnn 

A    SHORT   ESSAY   ON   CRITICS    ....  239 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICE    .     ...  246 

THE  TEA  ROSE ' 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

SARA  H.  BROWNE  :  PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 254 

A    SALUTATION   TO    FREDRIKA    BREMER 257 

MARIA  J.  B.  BROWNE: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE          ...........    260 

LOOKING   UP    IN   THE   WORLD 262 

ELIZABETH  BOGART: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE          ...........    274 

ARTHUR   MOWBRAY 276 

RECOLLECTIONS    OP    CHILDHOOD 279 

JANE  ELIZABETH  LARCOMBE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 280 

THOUGHTS    BY   THE    WAYSIDE  .........         280 

EMILY  0.  JUDSON: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 283 

LUCY   DUTTON 284 

MY    FIRST    GRIEF 290 

SARA  J.  CLARKE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 292 

A   DREAM    OF    DEATH 294 

EXTRACT   FROM   A   LETTER 298 

ANNE  C.  LYNCH: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 302 

FREDRIKA    BREMER 305 

MARY  E.  HEWITT : 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 312 

A    LEGEND    OF    IRELAND 313 

ALICE  B.  NEAL : 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 

THE    CHILD    LOVE    ......««••• 

CLARA  MOORE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTICE 335 

THE    YOUNG   MINISTER'S    CHOICE        .........         336 

ANN  E.  PORTER: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICE 345 

COUSIN  HELEN'S  BABY 346 

E.  W.  BARNES: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 353 

THE    YOUNG   RECTOR 353 

ANNE  T.  WILBUR : 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 360 

ALICE    VERNON         ......••••••         361 

ELIZA  L.  SPROAT : 

367 

367 


321 
323 


BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTICE 
THE    ENCHANTED    LUTE 


MARY  SPENSER  PEASE : 

07-1 
BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTICE 

OlTl 

THE    WITCH-HAZEL  ..••••••••• 

ori 
THE    SISTERS 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

SUSAN  FENIMORE  COOPER  :  PACK 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 379 

SPIDERS 379 

HUMMING-BIRDS 381 

WEEDS 384 

ELIZABETH  WETHERELL : 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICE 387 

LITTLE    ELLEN   AND    THE    SHOPMAN ,            .       -'    .  388 

CAROLINE  ORNE: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 396 

DOCTOR   PLUMLEY 398 

CAROLINE  MAY: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE      ...........  401 

HANDEL 401 

LUCRETIA   AND   MARGARET   DAVIDSON 402 

JULIA  C.  R.  DORR: 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE                  407 

HILLSIDE    COTTAGE 408 

MARY  ELIZABETH  MORAGNE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 413 

THE    HUGUENOT   TOWN 415 

MARY  ELIZABETH  LEE  : 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE     ...........  418 

EXTRACT    FROM   A    LETTER 420 

MARY  J.  WINDLE : 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE     ...........  423 

ALICE  HEATH'S  INTERVIEW  WITH  CROMWELL 424 

FRANCES  B.  M.  BROTHERSON : 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 430 

THE    OLD    AND    THE   NEW   YEAR                                                                                                                   .  430 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


i. 

ILLUMINATED   FRONTISPIECE. 

EXECUTED    BY    SINCLAIR,    FROM    AN    ORIGINAL   DRAWING   BY    DEVEREUX. 

II. 

ILLUMINATED   TITLE-PAGE. 

EXECUTED   BY   SINCLAIR,    FROM   AN    ORIGINAL    DRAWING    BY  DEVEREUX. 

III. 

PORTRAIT   OF    MISS    SEDGWICK. 

ENGRAVED    IN    LONDON.   FROM  A  DRAWING  BY  CROOME  AFTER  A  PORTRAIT    BY  INGHAM. 

IV. 
PORTRAIT   OF    MISS    McINTOSH. 

ENGRAVED    IN    LONDON,    FROM    A    DRAWING    BY    CROOME. 

(15) 


xvi  LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

V. 
PORTRAIT    OF    MRS.    KIRKLAND. 

ENGRAVED    IN   LONDON,    FROM   A    CRAYON   DRAWING   BY   MARTIN. 

VI. 

PORTRAIT    OF    MRS.    HENTZ. 

ENGRAVED    IN     LONDON,     FROM    A     DRAWING     BY    CROOME,     AFTER    A     MINIATURE     BY 

MR.    HENTZ. 

VII. 

PORTRAIT    OF    MRS.    STEPHENS. 

ENGRAVED    IN    LONDON,    FROM    A   DRAWING    BY    CROOME. 


VIII. 

PORTRAIT   OF    S.    MARGARET   FULLER. 

(MARCHIONESS  D'OSSOLI.) 

ENGRAVED    IN    LONDON,    FROM   A   PORTRAIT    BY   HICKS. 


IX. 

PORTRAIT    OF    MRS.   JUDSON. 

(FANNY  FORRESTER.) 

ENGRAVED  IN  LONDON,  FROM  A  DRAWING  BY  CROOME. 


X. 

PORTRAIT  OF  MRS.  NEAL. 

•  ENGRAVED  IN  LONDON,  FROM  A  CRAYON  DRAWING  BY  FURNESS. 


•••V- 


CATHERINE    M.   SEDGWICK. 


Miss  SEDGWICK  holds  about  the  same  position  among  our  female  prose 
writers  that  Cooper  holds  among  American  novelists.  She  was  the  first 
of  her  class  whose  writings  became  generally  known,  and  the  eminence 
universally  conceded  to  her  on  account  of  priority,  has  been  almost  as 
generally  granted  on  other  grounds.  Amid  the  throng  of  new  competitors 
for  public  favour,  who  have  entered  the  arena  within  the  last  few  years, 
there  is  not  one,  probably,  whose  admirers  would  care  to  disturb  the  well- 
earned  laurels  of  the  author  of  "  Redwood"  and  "  Hope  Leslie." 

Miss  Sedgwick  is  a  native,  and  has  been  much  of  her  life,  a  resident  of 
Stockbridge,  Massachusetts.  Her  father  was  the  Hon.  Theodore  Sedgwick, 
of  Stockbridge,  who  served  his  country  with  distinguished  reputation  in 
various  stations,  and  particularly  in  the  Congress  of  the  United  States, 
as  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Representatives,  and  afterwards  as  Senator, 
and  who,  at  the  time  of  his  death,  was  one  of  the  Judges  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  his  own  State.  Her  brothers,  Henry  and  Theodore,  have  both 
been  distinguished  as  lawyers  and  as  political  writers.  On  the  mother's 
side,  she  is  connected  with  the  Dwight  family,  of  whom  her  grandfather, 
Joseph  Dwight,  was  a  Brigadier-General  in  the  Massachusetts  Provincial 
forces,  and  actively  engaged  in  the  old  French  war  of  1756. 

Judge  Sedgwick  died  in  1813,  before  his  daughter  had  given  any  public 
demonstration  of  her  abilities  as  a  writer.  Her  talents  seem  to  have  been 
from  the  first  justly  appreciated  by  her  brothers,  whose  judicious  encou 
ragement  is  very  gracefully  acknowledged  in  the  preface  to  the  new  edition 
of  her  works,  commenced  by  Mr.  Putnam,  in  1849. 

Miss  Sedgwick' s  first  publication  was  "  The  New  England  Tale."  The 
author  informs  us  in  the  preface,  that  the  story  was  commenced  as  a 
religious  tract,  and  that  it  gradually  grew  in  her  hands,  beyond  the  proper 
limits  of  such  a  work.  Finding  this  to  be  the  case,  she  abandoned  all 
design  of  publication,  but  finished  the  tale  for  her  own  amusement.  Once 
2  (17) 


/ifcf- i  CATHERINE    M.    SEDGWICK. 

finished,  however,  the  opinions  and  solicitations  of  her  friends  prevailed 
over  her  own  earnest  wishes,  and  the  volume  was  given  to  the  world  in 
1822.  The  original  intention  of  this  book  led  the  author  to  give  special 
prominence  to  topics  of  a  questionable  character  for  a  professed  novel,  and 
the  unfavourable  portraiture  which  she  gives,  both  here  and  elsewhere,  of 
New  England  Puritanism,  has  naturally  brought  upon  her  some  censure. 
The  limited  plan  of  the  story  did  not  give  opportunity  for  the  display  of 
that  extent  and  variety  of  power  which  appear  in  some  of  her  later  pro 
ductions.  Still  it  contains  passages  of  stirring  eloquence,  as  well  as  of 
deep  tenderness,  that  will  compare  favourably  with  anything  she  has 
written.  Perhaps. the  chief  value  of  "The  New  England  Tale"  was  its 
effect  upon  the  author  herself.  Its  publication  broke  the  ice  of  diffidence 
and  indifference,  and  launched  her,  under  a  strong  wind,  upon  the  broad 
sea  of  letters. 

"Redwood"  accordingly  followed  in  1824.  It  was  received  at  once 
with  a  degree  of  favour  that  caused  the  author's  name  to  be  associated, 
and  on  equal  terms,  with  that  of  Cooper,  who  was  then  at  the  height  of  his 
popularity ;  and,  indeed,  in  a  French  translation  of  the  book,  which  then 
appeared,  Cooper  is  given  on  the  title-page  as  the  author.  "  Redwood" 
was  also  translated  into  the  Italian,  besides  being  reprinted  in  England. 

The  reputation  of  the  author  was  confirmed  and  extended  by  the 
appearance,  in  1827,  of  "Hope  Leslie."  the  most  decided  favourite  of  all 
her  novels.  She  has  written  other  things  since,  that  in  the  opinion  of 
some  of  the  critics  are  superior  to  either  "  Redwood"  or  "  Hope  Leslie." 
But,  these  later  writings  have  had  to  jostle  their  way  among  a  crowd  of 
competitors,  both  domestic  and  foreign.  Her  earlier  works  stood  alone,  and 
"  Hope  Leslie,"  especially,  became  firmly  associated  in  the  public  mind 
with  the  rising  glories  of  a  native  literature.  It  was  not  only  read  with 
lively  satisfaction,  but  familiarly  quoted  and  applauded  as  a  source  of 
national  pride. 

Her  subsequent  novels  followed  at  about  uniform  intervals ;  "  Clarence, 
a  Tale  of  our  Own  Times,"  in  1830 ;  "  Le  Bossu,"  one  of  the  Tales  of 
the  "  Glauber  Spa,"  in  1832 ;  and  "  The  Linwoods,  or  Sixty  Years  Since 
in  America,"  in  1835. 

In  1836,  she  commenced  writing  in  quite  a  new  vein,  giving  a  series  of 
illustrations  of  common  life,  called  "  The  Poor  Rich  Man,  and  the  Rich 
Poor  Man."  These  were  followed,  in  1837,  by  "  Live  and  Let  Live," 
and  afterwards  by  "  Means  and  Ends,"  a  "  Love  Token  for  Children/' 
and  "  Stories  for  Young  Persons." 

In  1839,  Miss  Sedgwick  went  to  Europe,  and  while  there,  wrote 
"Letters  from  Abroad  to  Kindred  at  Home."  These  were  collected 
after  her  return,  and  published  in  two  volumes. 

She  has  written  also  a  "  Life  of  Lucretia  M.  Davidson,"  and  has  con 
tributed  numerous  articles  to  the  Annuals  and  the  Magazines.  Some  of 


CATHERINE    M.    SEDG WICK.  19 

her  recent  publications  have  been  prepared  expressly  for  children  and 
young  persons.  "  The  Boy  of  Mount  Rhigi,"  published  in  1848,  is  one 
of  a  series  of  tales  projected  for  the  purpose  of  diffusing  sentiments  of 
goodness  among  the  young.  The  titles  of  some  of  her  other  small  vo 
lumes  are  "  Facts  and  Fancies,"  "  Beatitudes  and  Pleasant  Sundays," 
"  Morals  of  Manners,"  "  Wilton  Harvey,"  "  Home,"  "  Louisa  and  her 
Cousins,"  "  Lessons  without  Books,"  &c. 

The  quality  of  mind  which  is  most  apparent  in  Miss  Sedgwick's  writ 
ings  is  that  of  strength.  The  reader  feels  at  every  step  that  he  has  to  do 
with  a  vigorous  and  active  intellect.  Another  quality,  resulting  from  this 
possession  of  power,  is  the  entire  absence  of  affectation  of  every  kind. 
There  is  no  straining  for  effect,  no  mere  verbal  prettinesses.  The  discourse 
proceeds  with  the  utmost  simplicity  and  directness,  as  though  the  author 
were  more  intent  upon  what  she  is  saying  than  how  she  says  it.  And 
yet,  the  mountain  springs  of  her  own  Housatonick  do  not  send  up  a 
more  limpid  stream,  than  is  the  apparently  spontaneous  flow  of  her  pure 
English.  As  a  novelist,  Miss  Sedgwick  has  for  the  most  part  wisely  cho 
sen  American  subjects.  The  local  traditions,  scenery,  manners,  and 
costume,  being  thus  entirely  familiar,  she  has  had  greater  freedom  in  the 
exercise  of  the  creative  faculty,  on  which,  after  all,  real  eminence  in  the 
art  mainly  depends.  Her  characters  are  conceived  with  distinctness,  and 
are  minutely  individual  and  consistent,  while  her  plot  always  shows  a  mind 
fertile  in  resources  and  a  happy  adaptation  of  means  to  ends. 


MAGNETISM  AMONG  THE  SHAKERS. 

ONE  of  the  brethren  from  a  Shaker  settlement  in  our  neighbour 
hood,  called  on  us  the  other  day.  I  was  staying  with  a  friend,  in 
whose  atmosphere  there  is  a  moral  power,  analogous  to  some 
chemical  test,  which  elicits  from  every  form  of  humanity  whatever 
of  sweet  and  genial  is  in  it.  Our  visiter  was  an  old  acquaintance, 
and  an  old  member  of  his  order,  having  joined  it  more  than  forty 
years  ago  with  his  wife  and  two  children.  I  have  known  marked 
individuals  among  these  people,  and  yet  it  surprises  me  when  I  see 
an  original  stamp  of  character,  surviving  the  extinguishing  mono 
tony  of  life,  or  rather  suspended  animation  among  them.  What 
God  has  impressed  man  cannot  efface.  To  a  child's  eye,  each  leaf 
of  a  tree  is  like  the  other ;  to  a  philosopher's  each  has  its  distinc 
tive  mark.  Our  friend  W.'s  individuality  might  have  struck  a 
careless  observer.  He  has  nothing  of  the  angular,  crusty,  silent 


20  CATHERINE    M.    SEDGWICK. 

aspect  of  most  of  his  yea  and  nay  brethren,  who  have  a  perfect 
conviction  that  they  have  dived  to  the  bottom  of  the  well  and  found 
the  pearl  truth,  while  all  the  rest  of  the  world  look  upon  them  as 
at  the  bottom  of  a  well  indeed ;  but  without  the  pearl,  and  with 
only  so  much  light  as  may  come  in  through  the  little  aperture  that 
communicates  with  the  outward  world.  Neither  are  quite  right ; 
the  Shaker  has  no  monopoly  of  truth  or  holiness,  but  we  believe  he 
has  enough  of  both  to  light  a  dusky  path  to  heaven. 

Friend  Wilcox  is  a  man  of  no  pretension  whatever ;  but  content 
in  conscious  mediocrity.  We  were  at  dinner  when  he  came  in  ;  but 
friend  Wilcox  is  too  childlike  or  too  simple,  to  be  disturbed  by  any 
observances  of  conventional  politeness.  He  declined  an  invitation 
to  dine,  saying  he  had  eaten  and  was  not  hungry,  and  seated  him 
self  in  the  corner,  after  depositing  some  apples  on  the  table,  of 
rare  size  and  beauty.  "I  have  brought  some  notions,  too,"  he 

said,  "  for  you,  B ,"  and  he  took  from  his  ample  pocket  his 

handkerchief,  in  which  he  had  tied  up  a  parcel  of  sugar  plums  and 

peppermints.  B accepted  them  most  affably,  and  without  any 

apparent  recoiling,  shifted  them  from  the  old  man's  handkerchief 
to  an  empty  plate  beside  her.  "  Half  of  them,"  he  said,  "  remem 
ber,  B ,  are  for .  You  both  played  and  sung  to  me  last 

summer — I  don't  forget  it.  She  is  a  likely  woman,  and  makes  the 
music  sound  almost  as  good  as  when  I  was  young !" 

This  was  enthusiasm  in  the  old  Shaker ;  but  to  us  it  sounded 
strangely,  who  knew  that  she  who  had  so  kindly  condescended  to 
call  back  brother  Wilcox' s  youth,  had  held  crowds  entranced  by  her 
genius.  Brother  Wilcox  is  a  genial  old  man,  and  fifty  years  of 
abstinence  from  the  world's  pleasures  has  not  made  him  forget  or 
contemn  them.  He  resembles  the  jolly  friars  in  conventual  life, 
who  never  resist,  and  are  therefore  allowed  to  go  without  bits  or 
reins,  and  in  a  very  easy  harness.  There  is  no  galling  in  restraint 
where  there  is  no  desire  for  freedom.  It  is  the  "  immortal  long 
ings"  that  make  the  friction  in  life.  After  dinner,  B ,  at  brother 

Wilcox's  request,  sate  down  to  the  piano,  and  played  for  him  the 
various  tunes  that  were  the  favourites  in  rustic  inland  life  forty 
years  ago.  First  the  Highland  reel,  then  "Money  Musk." 


CATHERINE    M.    SEDGWICK.  21 

"I  remember  who  I  danced  that  with,"  he  said,  "  Sophy  Drury. 
The  ball  was  held  in  the  school  room  at  Feeding  fields.  She  is 
tight  built,  and  cheeks  as  red  as  a  rose  (past  and  present  were  con 
founded  in  brother  Wilcox's  imagination).  I  went  home  with  Sophy 
- — it  was  as  light  as  day,  and  near  upon  day — them  was  pleasant 
times  !"  concluded  the  old  man,  but  without  one  sigh  of  regret,  and 
with  a  gleam  of  light  from  his  twinkling  gray  eye. 

"  There  have  been  no  such  pleasant  times  since,  brother  Wilcox, 
has  there  ?"  asked  B ,  with  assumed  or  real  sympathy. 

"  I  can't  say  that,  it  has  been  all  along  pleasant.  I  have  had 
what  others  call  crosses,  but  I  don't  look  at  them  that  way — what's 
the  use?" 

The  old  man's  philosophy  struck  me.  There  was  no  record  of  a 
cross  in  his  round  jolly  face.  "Were  you  married,"  I  asked, 
"  when  you  joined  the  Shakers  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  married  at  twenty — it's  never  too  soon  nor  too  late 
to  do  right,  you  know,  and  it  was  right  for  me  to  marry  according 
to  the  light  I  had  then.  May  be  you  think  it  was  a  cross  to  part 
from  my  wife — all  men  don't  take  it  so — but  I  own  I  should ;  I  liked 
Eunice.  She  is  a  peaceable  woman,  and  we  lived  in  unity,  but  it 
was  rather  hard  times,  and  we  felt  a  call  to  join  the  brethren,  and 
so  we  walked  out  of  the  world  together,  and  took  our  two  children 
with  us.  In  the  society  she  was  the  first  woman  handy  in  all  cases." 

"  And  she  is  still  with  you  ?" 

"  No.  Our  girl  took  a  notion  and  went  off,  and  got  married,  and 
my  wife  went  after  her — that's  natural  for  mothers,  you  know.  I 
went  after  Eunice,  and  tried  to  persuade  her  to  come  back,  and  she 
felt  so ;  but  it's  hard  rooting  out  mother-love ;  it's  planted  deep, 
and  spreads  wide ;  so  I  left  her  to  nature,  and  troubled  myself  no 
more  about  it,  for  what  was  the  use  ?  My  son,  too,  took  a  liking 
to  a  young  English  girl  that  was  one  of  our  sisters — may  be  you 
have  seen  her  ?"  We  had  all  seen  her  and  admired  her  fresh 
English  beauty,  and  deplored  her  fate.  "  Well,  she  was  a  picture, 
and  speaking  after  the  manner  of  men,  as  good  as  she  was  hand 
some.  They  went  off  together ;  I  could  not  much  blame  them, 


22  CATHERINE    M.    SEDGWICK. 

and  I  took  no  steps  after  them — for  what  was  the  use  ?  But  come, 
strike  up  again  ;  play  '  Haste  to  the  wedding.'  " 

B obeyed,  and  our  old  friend  sang  or  chanted  a  low  accom 
paniment  ;  in  which  the  dancing  tune  and  the  Shaker  nasal  chant 

were  ludicrously  mingled.  B played  all  his  favourite  airs,  and 

then  said,  "  You  do  love  dancing,  brother  Wilcox  ?" 

"Yes,  to  be  sure — '  praise  him  in  the  cymbals  and  dances  !' ' 

"  Oh,  but  I  mean  such  dances  as  we  have  here.  Would  not  you 
like,  brother  Wilcox,  to  come  over  and  see  us  dance  ?" 

"Why,  may  be  I  should." 

"  And  would  not  you  like  to  dance  with  one  of  our  pretty  young 
ladies,  brother  Wilcox?" 

"May  be  I  should;"  the  old  man's  face  lit  up  joyously — but  he 
smiled  and  shook  his  head,  "  they  would  not  let  me,  they  would 
not  let  me."  Perhaps  the  old  Shaker's  imagination  wandered 
for  a  moment  from  the  very  straight  path  of  the  brotherhood,  but 
it  was  but  a  moment.  His  face  reverted  to  its  placid  passiveness, 
and  he  said,  "  I  am  perfectly  content.  I  have  enough  to  eat  and 
drink — everything  good  after  its  kind,  too — good  clothes  to  wear, 
a  warm  bed  to  sleep  in,  and  just  as  much  work  as  I  like,  and  no 
more."  "All  this,  and  heaven  too," — of  which  the  old  man  felt 
perfectly  sure — was  quite  enough  to  fill  the  measure  of  a  Shaker's 
desires. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "you  think  so  much  of  your  dances,  I  wish 
you  could  see  one  of  our  young  sisters  dance,  when  we  go  up  to 
Mount  Holy.  She  has  the  whirling  gift ;  she  will  spin  round  like 
a  top,  on  one  foot,  for  half  an  hour,  all  the  while  seeing  visions,  and 
receiving  revelations." 

This  whirling  is  a  recent  gift  of  the  Shakers.  The  few  "world's 
folk"  who  have  been  permitted  to  see  its  exhibition,  compare  its 
subjects  to  the  whirling  Dervishes. 

"  Have  you  any  other  new  inspiration  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Gifts,  you  mean  ?  Oh,  yes  ;  we  have  visionists.  It's  a  wonder 
ful  mystery  to  me.  I  never  was  much  for  looking  into  mysteries — • 
they  rather  scare  me  !"  Naturally  enough,  poor  childlike  old  man  ! 

"  What,  brother  Wilcox,"  I  asked,  "  do  you  mean  by  a  visionist  ?" 


CATHERINE    M.    SEDGWICK.  23 

"  I  can't  exactly  explain,"  he  replied.  "  They  see  things  that 
the  natural  eye  can't  see,  and  hear,  and  touch,  and  taste,  with 
inward  senses.  As  for  me,  I  never  had  any  kind  of  gifts,  but  a 
contented  mind,  and  submission  to  those  in  authority,  and  I  don't 
see  at  all  into  this  new  mystery.  It  makes  me  of  a  tremble  when 
I  think  of  it.  I'll  tell  you  how  it  acts.  Last  summer  I  was  among 
our  brethren  in  York  State,  and  when  I  was  coming  away,  I  went 
down  into  the  garden  to  take  leave  of  a  young  brother  there.  He 
asked  me  if  I  would  carry  something  for  him  to  Vesta.  Vesta  is 
a  young  sister,  famous  for  her  spiritual  gifts,  whirling,  &c."  I 
could  have  added,  for  I  had  seen  Vesta — for  other  less  questionable 
gifts  in  the  world's  estimation — a  light  graceful  figure,  graceful 
even  in  the  Shaker  straight  jacket,  and  a  face  like  a  young  Sibyl's. 
"  Well,"  continued  brother  Wilcox,  "  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
as  if  to  take  out  something,  and  then  stretching  it  to  me,  he  said, 
' 1  want  you  to  give  this  white  pear  to  Vesta.'  I  felt  to  take  some 
thing,  though  I  saw  nothing,  and  a  sort  of  trickling  heat  ran 
through  me ;  and  even  now,  when  I  think  of  it,  I  have  the  same 
feeling,  fainter,  but  the  same.  When  I  got  home,  I  asked  Vesta  if 
she  knew  that  young  brother.  '  Yea,'  she  said.  I  put  my  hand  in 
my  pocket  and  took  it  out  again,  to  all  earthly  seeming  as  empty 
as  it  went  in,  and  stretched  it  out  to  her.  c  Oh,  a  white  pear  !'  she 
said.  As  I  hope  for  salvation,  every  word  that  I  tell  you  is  true," 
concluded  the  old  man. 

It  was  evident  he  believed  every  word  of  it  to  be  true.  The 
incredulous  may  imagine  that  there  was  some  clandestine  inter 
course  between  the  "young  brother"  and  "young  sister,"  and  that 
simple  old  brother  Wilcox  was  merely  made  the  medium  of  a  fact 
or  sentiment,  symbolized  by  the  wrhite  pear.  However  that  may 
be,  it  is  certain  that  animal  magnetism  has  penetrated  into  the  cold 
and  dark  recesses  of  the  Shakers. 


24  CATHERINE  M.  SEDGWICK. 


THE  SABBATH  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

THE  observance  of  the  Sabbath  began  with  the  Puritans,  as  it 
still  does  with  a  great  portion  of  their  descendants,  on  Saturday 
night.  At  the  going  down  of  the  sun  on  Saturday,  all  temporal 
affairs  were  suspended ;  and  so  zealously  did  our  fathers  maintain 
the  letter,  as  well  as  the  spirit  of  the  law,  that,  according  to  a 
vulgar  tradition  in  Connecticut,  no  beer  was  brewed  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  week,  lest  it  should  presume  to  work  on  Sunday. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  the  tendency  of  the  age  is  to  laxity ; 
and  so  rapidly  is  the  wholesome  strictness  of  primitive  times 
abating,  that,  should  some  antiquary,  fifty  years  hence,  in  explor 
ing  his  garret  rubbish,  chance  to  cast  his  eye  on  our  humble 
pages,  he  may  be  surprised  to  learn,  that,  even  now,  the  Sabbath 
is  observed,  in  the  interior  of  New  England,  with  an  almost 
Judaical  severity. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  an  uncommon  bustle  is  apparent.  The 
great  class  of  procrastinators  are  hurrying  to  and  fro  to  complete 
the  lagging  business  of  the  week.  The  good  mothers,  like  Burns's 
matron,  are  plying  their  needles,  making  "  auld  claes  look  amaist 
as  weel's  the  new;"  while  the  domestics,  or  help  (we  prefer  the 
national  descriptive  term),  are  wielding,  with  might  and  main, 
their  brooms  and  mops,  to  make  all  tidy  for  the  Sabbath. 

As  the  day  declines,  the  hum  of  labour  dies  away,  and,  after  the 
sun  is  set,  perfect  stillness  reigns  in  every  well-ordered  house 
hold,  and  not  a  foot-fall  is  heard  in  the  village  street.  It  cannot 
be  denied,  that  even  the  most  scriptural,  missing  the  excitement 
of  their  ordinary  occupations,  anticipate  their  usual  bed-time.  The 
obvious  inference  from  this  fact  is  skilfully  avoided  by  certain 
ingenious  reasoners,  who  allege,  that  the  constitution  was  origi 
nally  so  organized  as  to  require  an  extra  quantity  of  sleep  on 
every  seventh  night.  We  recommend  it  to  the  curious  to  inquire, 
how  this  peculiarity  was  adjusted,  when  the  first  day  of  the  week 
was  changed  from  Saturday  to  Sunday. 


CATHERINE   M.    SEDGWICK.  25 

The  Sabbath  morning  is  as  peaceful  as  the  first  hallowed  day. 
Not  a  human  sound  is  heard  without  the  dwellings,  and,  but  for 
the  lowing  of  the  herds,  the  crowing  of  the  cocks,  and  the  gossipping 
of  the  birds,  animal  life  would  seem  to  be  extinct,  till,  at  the  bid 
ding  of  the  church-going  bell,  the  old  and  young  issue  from  their 
habitations,  and,  with  solemn  demeanour,  bend  their  measured  steps 
to  the  meeting-house ; — the  families  of  the  minister,  the  squire,  the 
doctor,  the  merchant,  the  modest  gentry  of  the  village,  and  the 
mechanic  and  labourer,  all  arrayed  in  their  best,  all  meeting  on 
even  ground,  and  all  with  that  consciousness  of  independence  and 
equality,  which  breaks  down  the  pride  of  the  rich,  and  rescues  the 
poor  from  servility,  envy,  and  discontent.  If  a  morning  salutation 
is  reciprocated,  it  is  in  a  suppressed  voice ;  and  if,  perchance, 
nature,  in  some  reckless  urchin,  burst  forth  in  laughter — "My 
dear,  you  forget  it's  Sunday,"  is  the  ever  ready  reproof. 

Though  every  face  wears  a  solemn  aspect,  yet  we  once  chanced 
to  see  even  a  deacon's  muscles  relaxed  by  the  wit  of  a  neighbour, 
and  heard  him  allege,  in  a  half-deprecating,  half-laughing  voice, 
"  The  squire  is  so  droll,  that  a  body  must  laugh,  though  it  be 
Sabbath-day." 

Towards  the  close  of  the  day  (or  to  borrow  a  phrase  descriptive 
of  his  feelings,  who  first  used  it),  "when  the  Sabbath  begins  to 
abate,"  the  children  cluster  about  the  windows.  Their  eyes  wan 
der  from  their  catechism  to  the  western  sky,  and,  though  it  seems 
to  them  as  if  the  sun  would  never  disappear,  his  broad  disk  does 
slowly  sink  behind  the  mountain ;  and,  while  his  last  ray  still 
lingers  on  the  eastern  summits,  merry  voices  break  forth,  and  the 
ground  resounds  with  bounding  footsteps.  The  village  belle  arrays 
herself  for  her  twilight  walk ;  the  boys  gather  on  "  the  green ;"  the 
lads  and  girls  throng  to  the  "singing-school;"  while  some  coy 
maiden  lingers  at  home,  awaiting  her  expected  suitor;  and  all 
enter  upon  the  pleasures  of  the  evening  with  as  keen  a  relish  as 
if  the  day  had  been  a  preparatory  penance. 


ELIZA  LESLIE. 


WE  have  room  Tsut  for  a  brief  preface  to  the  charming  autobiography 
of  Miss  Leslie,  furnished  to  our  pages  by  her  friend  Mrs.  Neal,  for  whom 
it  was  recently  written.  All  that  is  of  interest  in  the  personal  history 
of  this  gifted  lady,  she  has  herself  supplied.  It  only  remains  for  us  to 
point  out  the  characteristics  of  her  style,  and  the  great  popularity  of  her 
writings,  to  which  she  so  modestly  alludes. 

Her  tales  are  perfect  daguerreotypes  of  real  life ;  their  actors  think,  act, 
and  speak  for  themselves ;  with  a  keen  eye  for  the  ludicrous,  the  failings 
of  human  nature  are  never  portrayed  but  to  warn  the  young  and 
the  thoughtless.  Her  writings  are  distinguished  for  vivacity  and 
ease  of  expression,  strong  common  sense,  and  right  principle.  In 
her  juvenile  tales  the  children  are  neither  "  good  little  girls,  or  bad  little 
boys" — but  real  little  boys  and  girls,  who  act  and  speak  with  all  the 
genuineness  and  naiveti  of  childhood.  No  writer  of  fiction  in  our  coun 
try  has  ever  had  a  wider,  or  more  interested  circle  of  readers ;  and  this  is 
clearly  proved  by  the  increased  circulation  of  all  those  publications  in 
which  her  name  has  appeared  as  a  regular  contributor. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  the  autobiography  is  dated  from  the  United 
States  Hotel,  of  this  city,  where  Miss  Leslie  at  present  resides — a  charm 
to  its  social  circle,  and  sought  out  by  distinguished  travellers  of  many 
nations,  as  well  as  those  of  our  own  land.  Her  conversation  is  quite 
equal  to  her  writings,  a  circumstance  by  no  means  common  with  authors; 
her  remarkable  memory  furnishing  an  inexhaustible  store  of  anecdote, 
mingled  with  sprightly  and  original  opinions.  Her  early  life  will  be 
learned  from  the  following  sketch. 

(26) 


ELIZA   LESLIE.  27 

LETTER  TO  MRS.  ALICE  B.  NEAL. 

My  Dear  Friend : 

I  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  at  the  corner  of  Market  and  Second 
streets,  on  the  15th  of  November,  1787,  and  was  baptized  in  Christ 
Church  by  Bishop  White. 

Both  my  parents  were  natives  of  Cecil  county,  Maryland,  also 
the  birth-place  of  my  grandfathers  and  grandmothers  on  each  side. 
My  great-grandfather,  Robert  Leslie,  was  a  Scotchman.  He  came 
to  settle  in  America  about  the  year  1745  or  '46,  and  bought  a  farm 
on  North-East  River,  nearly  opposite  to  the  insulated  hill  called 
Maiden's  Mountain.  I  have  been  at  the  place.  My  maternal 
great-grandfather  was  a  Swede  named  Jansen.  So  I  have  no 
English  blood  in  me. 

My  father  was  a  man  of  considerable  natural  genius,  and  much 
self-taught  knowledge ;  particularly  in  Natural  Philosophy  and  in 
mechanics.  He  was  also  a  good  draughtsman,  and  a  ready  writer 
on  scientific  subjects ;  and  in  his  familiar  letters,  and  in  his  con 
versation,  there  was  evidence  of  a  most  entertaining  vein  of  hu 
mour,  with  extraordinary  powers  of  description.  He  had  an  ex 
cellent  ear  for  music;  and,  without  any  regular  instruction,  he 
played  well  on  the  flute  and  violin.  I  remember,  at  this  day,  many 
fine  Scottish  airs  that  I  have  never  seen  in  print,  and  which  my 
father  had  learned  in  his  boyhood  from  his  Scottish  grandsire,  who 
was  a  good  singer.  My  mother  was  a  handsome  woman,  of  excel 
lent  sense,  very  amusing,  and  a  first-rate  housewife. 

Soon  after,  their  marriage,  my  parents  removed  from  Elkton  to 
Philadelphia,  where  my  father  commenced  business  as  a  watch 
maker.  He  had  great  success.  Philadelphia  was  then  the  seat 
of  the  Federal  Government ;  and  he  soon  obtained  the  custom  of 
the  principal  people  in  the  place,  including  that  of  Washington, 
Franklin,  and  Jefferson,  the  two  last  becoming  his  warm  personal 
friends.  There  is  a  free-masonry  in  men  of  genius  which  makes 
them  find  out  each  other  immediately.  It  was  by  Mr.  Jefferson's 
recommendation  that  my  father  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Ameri 
can  Philosophical  Society.  To  Dr.  Franklin  he  suggested  an 


28  ELIZA   LESLIE. 

improvement  in  lightning  rods, — gilding  the  points  to  prevent  their 
rusting, — that  was  immediately,  and  afterwards  universally  adopted. 

Among  my  father's  familiar  visiters  were  Robert  Patterson,  long 
Professor  of  Mathematics  at  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  and 
afterwards  President  of  the  Mint;  Charles  Wilson  Peale,  who 
painted  the  men  of  the  revolution,  and  founded  the  noble  museum 
called  by  his  name ;  John  Vaughan,  and  Matthew  Carey. 

When  I  was  about  five  years  old,  my  father  went  to  England 
with  the  intention  of  engaging  in  the  exportation  of  clocks  and 
watches  to  Philadelphia,  having  recently  taken  into  partnership 
Isaac  Price,  of  this  city.  We  arrived  in  London  in  June,  1793, 
after  an  old-fashioned  voyage  of  six  weeks.  We  lived  in  England 
about  six  years  and  a  half,  when  the  death  of  my  father's  partner 
in  Philadelphia,  obliged  us  to  return  home.  An  extraordinary 
circumstance  compelled  our  ship  to  go  into  Lisbon,  and  detained 
us  there  from  November  till  March ;  and  we  did  not  finish  our 
voyage  and  arrive  in  Philadelphia  till  May.  The  winter  we  spent 
in  our  Lisbon  lodgings  was  very  uncomfortable,  but  very  amusing. 

After  we  came  home,  my  father's  health,  which  had  long  been 
precarious,  declined  rapidly ;  but  he  lived  till  1803.  My  mother 
and  her  five  children  (of  whom  I  was  the  eldest)  were  left  in  cir 
cumstances  which  rendered  it  necessary  that  she  and  myself  should 
make  immediate  exertions  for  the  support  of  those  who  were  yet 
too  young  to  assist  themselves,  as  they  did  afterwards.  Our  diffi 
culties  we  kept  uncomplainingly  to  ourselves.  We  asked  no  assist 
ance  of  our  friends,  we  incurred  no  debts,  and  we  lived  on  cheer 
fully,  and  with  such  moderate  enjoyments  as  our  means  afforded ; 
believing  in  the  proverb,  that  "  All  work  and  no  play  make  Jack  a 
dull  boy." 

My  two  brothers  were  then,  and  still  are,  sources  of  happiness 
to  the  family.  But  they  both  left  home  at  the  age  of  sixteen. 
Charles,  with  an  extraordinary  genius  for  painting,  went  to  London 
to  cultivate  it.  He  rapidly  rose  to  the  front  rank  of  his  profession, 
and  maintains  a  high  place  among  the  great  artists  of  Europe.  He 
married  in  England,  and  still  lives  there. 

My  youngest  brother,  Thomas  Jefferson  Leslie,  having  passed 


ELIZA    LESLIE.  29 

through  the  usual  course  of  military  education,  in  the  West  Point 
Academy,  was  commissioned  in  the  Engineers,  and,  with  the  rank 
of  Major,  is  still  attached  to  the  army.  My  sister,  Anna  Leslie, 
resides  in  New  York.  She  has  several  times  visited  London,  where 
she  was  instructed  in  painting  by  her  brother  Charles,  and  has  been 
very  successful  in  copying  pictures.  My  youngest  sister,  Patty, 
became  the  wife  of  Henry  C.  Carey,  and  never  in  married  life  was 
happiness  more  perfect  than  theirs. 

To  return  now  to  myself.  Fortunate  in  being  gifted  with  an 
extraordinary  memory,  I  was  never  in  childhood  much  troubled 
with  long  lessons  to  learn,  or  long  exercises  to  write.  My  father 
thought  I  could  acquire  sufficient  knowledge  for  a  child  by  simply 
reading  "  in  book,"  without  making  any  great  effort  to  learn  things 
by  heart.  And  as  this  is  not  the  plan  usually  pursued  at  schools, 
I  got  nearly  all  my  education  at  home.  I  had  a  French  master, 
and  a  music  master  (both  coming  to  give  lessons  at  the  house) ; 
my  father  himself  taught  me  to  write,  and  overlooked  my  drawing ; 
and  my  mother  was  fully  competent  to  instruct  me  in  every  sort 
of  useful  sewing.  I  went  three  months  to  school,  merely  to  learn 
ornamental  needle-work.  All  this  was  in  London.  We  had  a 
governess  in  the  house  for  the  younger  children. 

My  chief  delight  was  in  reading  and  drawing.  My  first  attempts 
at  the  latter  were  on  my  slate,  and  I  was  very  happy  when  my  father 
brought  me  one  day  a  box  of  colours  and  a  drawing-book,  and  showed 
me  how  to  use  them. 

There  was  no  restriction  on  my  reading,  except  to  prevent  me 
from  "reading  my  eyes  out."  And  indeed  they  have  never  been 
very  strong.  At  that  time  there  were  very  few  books  written  pur 
posely  for  children.  I  believe  I  obtained  all  that  were  then  to  be 
found.  But  this  catalogue  being  soon  exhausted,  and  my  appetite 
for  reading  being  continually  on  the  increase,  I  was  fain  to  supply 
it  with  works  that  were  considered  beyond  the  capacity  of  early 
youth — a  capacity  which  is  too  generally  underrated.  Children  are 
often  kept  on  bread  and  milk  long  after  they  are  able  to  eat  meat 
and  potatoes.  I  could  read  at  four  years  old,  and  before  twelve  I 
was  familiar,  among  a  multitude  of  other  books,  with  Goldsmith's 


30  ELIZA   LESLIE. 

admirable  Letters  on  England,  and  his  histories  of  Rome  and 
Greece  (Robinson  Crusoe  and  the  Arabian  Nights,  of  course),  and 
I  had  gone  through  the  six  octavo  volumes  of  the  first  edition  of 
Cook's  Voyages.  I  talked  much  of  Tupia  and  Omiah,  and  Otoo 
and  Terreoboo  —  Captain  Cook  I  almost  adored.  Among  our 
visitors  in  London,  was  a  naval  officer  who  had  sailed  with  Cook 
on  his  last  voyage,  and  had  seen  him  killed  at  Owhyhee — I  am 
sorry  the  name  of  that  island  has  been  changed  to  the  unspellable 
and  unpronounceable  Hawaii.  I  was  delighted  when  my  father 
took  me  to  the  British  Museum,  to  see  the  numerous  curiosities 
brought  from  the  South  Sea  by  the  great  circumnavigator. 

The  "Elegant  Extracts"  made  me  acquainted  with  the  best 
passages  in  the  works  of  all  the  British  writers  who  had  flourished 
before  the  present  century.  From  this  book  I  first  learned  the 
beauties  of  Shakspeare.  My  chief  novels  were  Miss  Burney's, 
Mrs.  RadcliiFe's,  and  the  Children  of  the  Abbey. 

Like  most  authors,  I  made  my  first  attempts  in  verse.  They 
were  always  songs,  adapted  to  the  popular  airs  of  that  time,  the 
close  of  the  last  century.  The  subjects  were  chiefly  soldiers, 
sailors,  hunters,  and  nuns.  I  scribbled  two  or  three  in  the  pas 
toral  line,  but  my  father  once  pointing  out  to  me  a  real  shepherd, 
in  a  field  somewhere  in  Kent,  I  made  no  farther  attempt  at 
Damons  and  Strephons,  playing  on  lutes  and  wreathing  their 
brows  with  roses.  My  songs  were,  of  course,  foolish  enough ;  but 
in  justice  to  myself  I  will  say,  that  having  a  good  ear,  I  was  never 
guilty  of  a  false  quantity  in  any  of  my  poetry — my  lines  never  had 
a  syllable  too  much  or  too  little,  and  my  rhymes  always  did  rhyme. 
At  thirteen  or  fourteen,  I  began  to  despise  my  own  poetry,  and 
destroyed  all  I  had.  I  then,  for  many  years,  abandoned  the  dream 
of  my  childhood,  the  hope  of  one  day  seeing  my  name  in  print. 

It  was  not  till  1827  that  I  first  ventured  "to  put  out  a  book," 
and  a  most  unparnassian  one  it  was — "  Seventy-five  receipts  for 
pastry,  cakes,  and  sweetmeats."  Truth  was,  I  had  a  tolerable 
collection  of  receipts,  taken  by  myself  while  a  pupil  of  Mrs.  Good- 
fellow's  cooking  school,  in  Philadelphia,.  I  had  so  many  applica 
tions  from  my  friends  for  copies  of  these  directions,  that  my  brother 


ELIZA   LESLIE.  31 

suggested  my  getting  rid  of  the  inconvenience  by  giving  them  to 
the  public  in  print.  An  offer  was  immediately  made  to  me  by 
Munroe  &  Francis,  of  Boston,  to  publish  them  on  fair  terms. 
The  little  volume  had  much  success,  and  has  gone  through  many 
editions.  Mr.  Francis  being  urgent  that  I  should  try  my  hand  at 
a  work  of  imagination,  I  wrote  a  series  of  juvenile  stories,  which  I 
called  the  Mirror.  It  was  well  received,  and  was  followed  by 
several  other  story-books  for  youth — "  The  Young  Americans," 
"  Stories  for  Emma,"  "Stories  for  Adelaide,"  "Atlantic  Tales," 
"Stories  for  Helen,"  "Birth-day  Stories."  Also,  I  compiled  a 
little  book  called  "  The  Wonderful  Traveller,"  being  an  abridg 
ment  (with  essential  alterations)  of  Munchausen,  Gulliver,  and 
Sindbad.  In  1831  Munroe  and  Francis  published  my  "  American 
Girls'  Book,"  of  which  an  edition  is  still  printed  every  year.  Many 
juvenile  tales,  written  by  me,  are  to  be  found  in  the  annuals  called 
the  Pearl  and  the  Violet. 

I  had  but  recently  summoned  courage  to  write  fictions  for  grown 
people,  when  my  story  of  Mrs.  Washington  Potts  obtained  a  prize 
from  Mr.  Godey,  of  the  Lady's  Book.  Subsequently  I  was  allotted 
three  other  prizes  successively,  from  different  periodicals.  I  then 
withdrew  from  this  sort  of  competition. 

For  several  years  I  wrote  an  article  every  month  for  the  Lady's 
Book,  and  for  a  short  time  I  was  a  contributor  to  Graham's  Maga 
zine  ;  and  occasionally,  I  sent,  by  invitation,  a  contribution  to  the 
weekly  papers.  I  was  also  editor  of  the  Gift,  an  annual  published 
by  Carey  &  Hart ;  and  of  the  Violet,  a  juvenile  souvenir. 

My  only  attempt  at  anything  in  the  form  of  a  novel,  was  "  Ame 
lia,  or  a  Young  Lady's  Vicissitudes,"  first  printed  in  the  Lady's 
Book,  and  then  in  a  small  volume  by  itself.  Could  I  begin  anew 
my  literary  career,  I  would  always  write  novels  instead  of  short 
stories. 

Three  volumes  of  my  tales  were  published  by  Carey  &  Lea, 
under  the  title  of  Pencil  Sketches.  Of  these,  there  will  soon  be  a 
new  edition.  In  1838  Lea  &  Blanchard  printed  a  volume  con 
taining  "  Althea  Vernon,  or  the  Embroidered  Handkerchief,"  and 
"Henrietta  Harrison,  or  the  Blue  Cotton  Umbrella."  Several 


32  ELIZA    LESLIE. 

books  of  my  fugitive  stones  have  been  published  in  pamphlet  form, 
— the  titles  being  "Kitty's  Relations,"  "Leonilla  Lymnore," 
"The  Maid  of  Canal  Street"  (the  Maid  is  a  refined  and  accom 
plished  young  lady),  and  "The  Jennings'  and  their  Beaux."  All 
my  stories  are  of  familiar  life,  and  I  have  endeavoured  to  render 
their  illustrations  of  character  and  manners,  as  entertaining  and 
instructive  as  I  could;  trying  always  "to  point  a  moral,"  as  well 
as  to  "  adorn  a  tale." 

The  works  from  which  I  have,  as  yet,  derived  the  greatest  pecu 
niary  advantage,  are  my  three  books  on  domestic  economy.  The 
"Domestic  Cookery  Book,"  published  in  1837,  is  now  in  the  forty- 
first  edition,  no  edition  having  been  less  than  a  thousand  copies ; 
and  the  sale  increases  every  year.  "  The  House  Book"  came  out 
in  1840,  and  the  "Lady's  Receipt  Book"  in  1846.  All  have  been 
successful,  and  profitable. 

My  two  last  stories  are  "  Jernigan's  Pa,"  published  in  the  Satur 
day  Gazette,  and  "  The  Baymounts,"  in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post. 

I  am  now  engaged  on  a  life  of  John  Fitch,  for  which  I  have  been 
several  years  collecting  information,  from  authentic  sources.  I 
hope  soon  to  finish  a  work  (undertaken  by  particular  desire)  for  the 
benefit  of  young  ladies,  and  to  which  I  purpose  giving  the  plain, 
simple  title  of  "  The  Behaviour  Book." 

U.  S.  Hotel,  Phila.,  Aug.  1,  1851. 


MRS.  DERRINGTON'S  RECEPTION  DAY. 

MAJOR  FAYLAND  had  departed  on  his  return  home,  and  Sophia's 
tears  had  flowed  fast  and  long  on  taking  leave  of  her  father.  Mrs. 
Derrington  reminded  her,  by  way  of  consolation,  that  to-morrow 
was  "reception  day,"  and  that  she  would  then  most  probably  see 
many  of  the  ladies,  who,  having  heard  of  Miss  Fayland's  arrival, 
had  already  left  cards  for  her. 

"And  what,  dear  aunt,  is  exactly  meant  by  a  reception  day?" 
inquired  Sophia. 


ELIZA   LESLIE.  33 

"  It  is  a  convenient  way  of  getting  through  our  morning  visit- 
ers,"  replied  Mrs.  Derrington.  "We  send  round  cards  at  the 
beginning  of  the  season  to  notify  our  friends  that  we  are  at  home 
on  a  certain  morning,  once  a  week.  My  day  is  Thursday.  I  sit 
in  the  drawing-room  during  several  hours  in  a  handsome  demi- 
toilette.  Full  dress  is  not  admissible,  of  course,  at  morning  recep 
tions.  Any  of  my  friends  that  wish  to  see  me,  take  this  opportunity ; 
understanding  that  I  receive  calls  at  no  other  time.  They  are 
served  with  chocolate  and  other  refreshments,  brought  in  and 
handed  to  them  soon  after  their  arrival.  They  talk  awhile,  and 
then  depart.  There  are  some  coining  in,  and  some  going  out  all 
the  time,  and  no  one  staying  long.  The  guests  are  chiefly  ladies  ; 
few  gentlemen  of  this  city  having  leisure  for  morning  visits.  Still 
every  gentleman  manages  to  honour  a  lady's  reception  day  with  at 
least  one  call  during  the  season.  I  suppose  you  had  no  such  things 
as  morning  receptions  at  the  fort  ?" 

"No,  indeed,"  replied  Sophia;  "our  mornings  were  always 
fully  occupied  in  attending  to  household  affairs,  and  doing  the  sew 
ing  of  the  family.  Afternoon  was  the  time  for  walking  or  reading. 
But  in  the  evening  we  all  visited  our  neighbours,  very  much 
according  to  the  fashion  of  Spanish  tertulias." 

Next  morning,  when  dressed  for  the  reception,  and  seated  in  the 
drawing-room  to  wait  for  the  first  arrivals,  Mrs.  Derrington  said  to 
Sophia — "  We  shall  now  hear  all  about  Mrs.  Cotterell's  great  party 
which  came  off  last  night.  I  have  some  curiosity  to  know  what  it 
was  like,  being  her  first  since  she  came  to  live  in  this  part  of  the 
town." 

"Do  you  visit  her?"  asked  Sophia. 

"  Oh,  no — not  yet — and  probably  I  never  may.  I  am  waiting 
to  see  if  the  Cotterells  succeed  in  getting  into  society." 

"What  society,  dear  aunt?"  inquired  Sophia. 

"  I  see,  Sophy,  that  I  shall  be  much  amused  with  your  simpli 
city,"  replied  Mrs.  Derrington;  "or  rather  with  your  extreme 
newness.  In  using  the  word  society,  we  allude  only  to  one  class, 
and  that  of  course  is  the  very  best." 

"  By  that  I  understand  a  select  circle  of  intellectual,  refined, 


34  ELIZA    LESLIE. 

agreeable,  and  every  way  excellent  people,"  said  Sophia;  "men  on 
whose  integrity,  and  women  on  whose  propriety  there  is  not  the 
slightest  blemish,  and  who  are  admired  for  their  talents,  loved  for 
their  goodness,  and  esteemed  for  the  truth  and  honour  of  their 
whole  conduct." 

"  Stop — stop,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Derrington,  "you  are  going 
quite  too  far.  Can  you  suppose  all  this  is  required  to  get  people 
into  society,  or  to  keep  them  there  ?  The  upper  circles  would  be 
very  small  if  nothing  short  of  perfection  could  be  admitted." 

"What  then,  dear  aunt,  are  the  requisites?"  asked  Sophia. 
"  Is  genius  one  ?" 

"  Genius  ?  Oh,  no,  indeed.  It  is  not  that  sort  of  thing  that 
brings  people  into  society.  It  is  mostly  considered  rather  a  draw 
back.  Mrs.  Goldsworth  actually  shuns  people  of  genius.  Indeed, 
most  of  my  friends  rather  avoid  them.  I  have  no  acquaintance 
whatever  with  any  man  or  woman  of  genius." 

"Ijim  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  Sophia.  "I  had  hoped  while  in 
New  York  to  meet  many  of  those  gifted  persons  whose  fame  has 
spread  throughout  our  country,  whom  I  already  know  by  reputa 
tion,  and  whom  I  have  long  been  desirous  of  seeing  or  hearing." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  you  mean  lions,"  said  Mrs.  Derrington.  "  I 
can  assure  you  that  /  patronize  none  of  them ;  neither  do  any  of 
my  friends." 

"I  thought  the  lions  were  the  patronizers,"  said  Sophia,  "and 
that  their  position  gave  them  the  exclusive  power  of  selecting  their 
associates,  and  deciding  on  whom  to  confer  the  honour  of  their 
acquaintance." 

"Sophy — Sophy,  you  really  make  me  laugh !"  exclaimed  her 
aunt.  "  What  strange  notions  you  have  picked  up,  with  your  gar 
rison  education.  Do  not  you  know  that  people  of  genius  seldom 
live  in  any  sort  of  style,  or  keep  carriages,  or  give  balls  ?  And 
they  never  make  fortunes;  unless  they  are  foreign  musicians  or 
dancers,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  the  singing  and  dancing  people  are 
classed  as  geniuses.  They  are  regarded  as  something  much  better." 

"Is  society  composed  entirely  of  people  of  fortune?" 


ELIZA    LESLIE.  35 

"Oh,  no ;  there  are  persons  in  the  first  circle  who  are  not  half 
so  rich  as  many  in  the  second,  or  even  in  the  third,  or  fourth." 

"  Then,  if  society  is  not  distinguished  for  pre-eminence  in  talent 
or  wealth,  the  distinction  must  depend  upon  the  transcendent  good 
ness,  and  perfect  respectability  of  those  that  belong  to  it." 

"  Why,  not  exactly.  I  confess  that  some  of  the  persons  in  soci 
ety  have  done  very  bad  things ;  which  after  the  first  few  days  it  is 
best  to  hush  up,  for  the  honour  of  our  class.  But  then  in  certain 
respects  society  is  most  exemplary.  We  always  subscribe  to  public 
charities.  Charity  is  very  fashionable,  and  so  is  church." 

"And  now,"  continued  Sophia,  "  to  return  to  the  lady  who  gave 
the  party  last  night.  Is  not  she  a  good  and  respectable  woman  ?" 

"  I  never  heard  anything  against  her  goodness,  or  her  respect 
ability." 

"  She  must  surely  be  a  woman  of  education." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  went  to  school  with  her  myself.  But  at  all  schools 
there  is  somewhat  of  a  mixture.  To  give  you  Mrs.  Cotterell's  his 
tory — her  father  kept  a  large  store  in  Broadway,  and  afterwards 
he  got  into  the  wholesale  line,  and  went  into  Pearl  street.  Now, 
my  father  was  a  shipping  merchant,  and  owned  vessels,  and  my 
dear  late  husband  was  his  junior  partner.  Mr.  Cotterell  made  his 
money  in  some  sort  of  manufacturing  business,  across  the  river. 
He  died  two  years  ago,  and  is  said  to  have  left  his  family  very  rich. 
Her  daughter  being  now  grown,  Mrs.  Cotterell  has  bought  a  house 
up  here,  in  the  best  part  of  the  town,  and  has  come  out  quite  in 
style,  and  been  tolerably  called  on.  Some  went  to  see  her  out  of 
curiosity ;  and  some  because  they  have  an  insatiable  desire  for  en 
larging  their  circle ;  some  because  they  have  a  passion  for  new 
people ;  and  some  because  they  like  to  go  to  houses  where  every 
thing  is  profuse  and  costly,  as  is  generally  the  case  with  parvenus" 

"And  some,  I  hope,"  said  Sophia,  "because  they  really  like 
Mrs.  Cotterell  for  herself." 

"  She  certainly  is  visited  by  a  few  very  genteel  people,"  con 
tinued  Mrs.  Derrington,  "  and  that  has  encouraged  her  to  attempt 
a  party  last  night.  But  the  Goldsworths,  the  Highburys,  the 
Featherstones,  and  myself,  are  waiting  to  hear  if  she  is  well  taken 


36  ELIZA    LESLIE. 

up ;  and,  above  all,  if  the  Pelham  Prideauxs  have  called  on  her. 
And  besides,  it  inay  be  well  for  us  not  to  begin  till  she  has  gradu 
ally  gotten  rid  of  the  people  with  whom  she  associated  in  her  hus 
band's  time." 

"  Surely,"  said  Sophia,  "she  cannot  be  expected  to  throw  off 
her  old  friends?" 

"  Then  she  need  not  expect  to  gain  new  ones  up  here.  We  can 
not  mix  with  people  from  the  unfashionable  districts.  Mrs.  Cotte- 
rell  may  do  as  she  pleases — but  she  must  be  select  in  her  circle, 
if  she  wants  the  countenance  of  the  Pelham  Prideauxs." 

"And  who,  dear  aunt,  are  the  Pelham  Prideauxs?"  inquired 
Sophia. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  never  heard  of  them  ?"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Der- 
rington.  "  To  know  Mrs.  Pelham  Prideaux,  to  be  seen  at  her 
house,  or  to  have  her  seen  at  yours,  is  sufficient.  It  gives  the  stamp 
of  high  fashion  at  once." 

"  And  for  what  reason  ?"  persisted  Sophia. 

"Because  she  is  Mrs.  Pelham  Prideaux,"  was  the  reply. 

"What  is  her  husband?"  said  Sophia. 

"  He  is  a  gentleman  who  has  always  lived  upon  the  fortune  left 
him  by  his  father,  who  inherited  property  from  his  father,  and  he 
from  his.  None  of  the  Prideauxs  have  done  anything  for  a  hun 
dred  years.  The  great-grandfather  was  from  England,  and  came 
over  a  gentleman." 

"Surprising!"  said  Sophia,  mischievously.  "And  whom  have 
they  to  inherit  all  this  glory  ?" 

"  An  only  daughter,"  replied  Mrs.  Derrington,  "  Maria  Matilda 
Pelham  Prideaux." 

At  this  moment  a  carriage  stopped  at  the  door,  and  presently 
Mrs.  Middleby  was  announced ;  and  immediately  after,  two  young 
ladies  came  in  who  were  presented  to  Sophia  as  Miss  Telford  and 
Miss  Ellen  Telford.  The  conversation  soon  turned  on  Mrs.  Cotte- 
rell's  party.  Mrs.  Middleby  had  been  there — the  Miss  Telfords 
had  not,  and  were  therefore  anxious  to  "  hear  all  about  it." 

"Keally,"  said  Mrs.  Middleby,  "it  was  just  like  all  other  par 
ties  ;  and  like  all  others,  it  went  off  tolerably  well.  The  company 


ELIZA    LESLIE.  37 

was  such  as  one  meets  everywhere.  The  rooms  were  decorated  in 
the  usual  style.  Some  of  the  people  looked  better  than  others,  and 
some  worse  than  others.  The  dressing  was  just  as  it  always  is  at 
parties.  The  hostess  and  her  daughter  behaved  as  people  generally 
do  in  their  own  houses ;  the  company  as  guests  usually  behave  in 
other  people's  houses.  There  was  some  conversation  and  some 
music.  The  supper  was  like  all  other  suppers,  and  everybody  went 
away  about  the  usual  hour." 

Mrs.  Derrington  was  dubious  about  taking  up  the  Cotterells. 

"  I  knew  we  should  not  get  much  information  out  of  Mrs.  Mid- 
dleby,"  said  Miss  Telford  to  Sophia,  after  the  lady  had  departed. 
"  She  always  deals  in  generals,  whatever  may  be  the  topic  of  con 
versation." 

"  Because  her  capacity  of  observation  is  so  shallow  that  it  cannot 
take  in  particulars,"  said  Ellen  Telford.  "  But  here  comes  Mrs. 
Honey  wood — we  will  stay  to  hear  what  she  says." 

Mrs.  Honeywood  was  introduced,  and  on  being  applied  to  for  her 
account  of  Mrs.  Cotterell's  party,  she  pronounced  it  every  way 
charming;  and  told  of  some  delightful  people  that  were  there. 
"Among  them,"  said  Mrs.  Honeywood,  "was  the  dashing  widow, 
Mrs.  Crandon,  as  elegant  and  as  much  admired  as  ever.  She  was 
certainly  the  belle  of  the  room,  and  looked  even  more  captivating 
than  usual,  with  her  blooming  cheeks,  and  her  magnificent  dark 
eyes,  and  her  rich  and  graceful  ringlets,  and  her  fine  tall  figure  set 
off  by  her  superb  dress,  giving  her  the  air  of  a  duchess,  or  a  count 
ess  at  least." 

"What  was  her  dress?"  inquired  Sophia. 

"  Oh,  a  beautiful  glossy  cherry-coloured  velvet,  trimmed  with  a 
profusion  of  rich  black  lace.  On  her  head  was  an  exquisite  dress- 
hat  of  white  satin  and  blond,  with  a  splendid  ostrich  plume.  She 
was  surrounded  by  beaux  all  the  evening.  The  gentlemen  almost 
neglected  the  young  ladies  to  crowd  round  the  enchanting  widow, 
particularly  when  she  played  on  the  harp  and  sung.  They  would 
scarcely  allow  her  to  quit  the  instrument ;  and,  indeed,  her  music 
was  truly  divine.  There  was  quite  a  scramble  as  to  who  should 
have  the  honour  of  leading  Mrs.  Crandon  to  the  supper-table." 


38  ELIZA    LESLIE. 

After  some  further  encomiums  on  the  widow  Crandon,  and  on 
everything  connected  with  the  party,  Mrs.  Honeywood  took  her 
leave,  first  offering  seats  in  her  carriage  to  the  Miss  Telfords, 
which  offer  they  accepted. 

Mrs.  Derrington  rather  thought  she  would  take  up  the  Cotterells. 

The  next  of  the  guests  who  had  been  at  Mrs.  Cotterell's  party 
was  Miss  Rodwell ;  and  she  also  gave  an  account  of  it. 

"  Mrs.  Cotterell  and  her  daughter  are  rather  presentable,  and 
they  are  visited  to  a  certain  degree,"  said  Miss  Rodwell;  "and 
I  understand  that  Mrs.  Pelham  Prideaux  does  think  of  calling  on 
them.  I  knew  that  I  should  meet  many  of  my  friends,  or  of  course, 
I  could  not  have  risked  being  there  myself.  But,  under  any  cir 
cumstances,  the  company  was  too  large  to  be  select.  A  party  can 
not  be  perfectly  comme  il  faut,  if  it  numbers  more  than  fifty. 
Mrs.  De  Manchester  says,  that  to  have  the  very  cream  and  flower 
of  New  York  society,  you  must  not  go  beyond  thirty.  And,  though 
an  Englishwoman,  I  think,  in  this  respect,  she  is  right." 

"  The  Vanbombels,  to  be  completely  select,  invite  none  but  their 
own  relations,"  observed  Mrs.  Derrington. 

"And  for  the  same  reason,"  rejoined  Miss  Rodwell,  "the 
Jenkses  invite  none  of  their  relations  at  all.  But  who  do  you 
think  I  saw  last. evening  ?  Poor  Crandon,  absolutely  !  I  wonder 
where  Mrs.  Cotterell  found  her  ?  She  must  have  been  invited  out 
of  compassion ;  it  certainly  could  not  have  been  for  the  purpose  of 
ornamenting  the  rooms.  Most  likely  Mrs.  Cotterell  did  not  know 
that  poor  Crandon  is  so  entirely  passe,  nobody  minds  cutting  her 
in  the  least.  There  she  was  rigged  out  in  that  old  dingy  red  velvet 
that  everybody  was  long  ago  tired  of  seeing.  It  is  now  quite  too 
narrow  for  the  fashion,  and  looks  faded  and  threadbare.  She  had 
taken  off  the  white  satin  trimming  that  graced  it  in  its  high  and 
palmy  days,  and  decorated  it  scantily  with  some  coarse  brownish, 
blackish  lace.  And  then  her  head,  with  its  forlorn  ringlets,  stream 
ing  down  with  the  curl  all  out,  and  a  queer  yellowish-white  hat, 
and  a  meagre  old  feather  to  match  !  Such  an  object !  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  her !  But,  poor  thing,  I  could  not  help  pitying 
her,  for  she  looked  forlorn,  and  sat  neglected,  and  was  left  to  her- 


ELIZA  LESLIE.  39 

self  nearly  all  the  time  ;  except  when  the  Cotterells  talked  to  her 
from  a  sense  of  duty.  She  played  something  on  the  harp,  but 
nobody  seemed  to  listen.  I  know  that  I  was  talking  and  laughing 
all  the  time,  and  so  was  every  one  else.  People  that  are  ill-dressed 
should  never  play  on  harps.  It  shows  them  too  plainly." 

"And  they  should  never  go  to  parties  either,"  said  Mrs.  Der- 
rington.  "  Poor  Mrs.  Crandon,  has  she  no  friend  to  tell  her  so  ? 
But  I  never  heard  before  that  she  had  fallen  off  in  her  costume. 
The  report  may  be  true  that  her  husband's  executors  have  defrauded 
her  of  a  considerable  portion  of  her  property.  However,  I  have 
lost  sight  of  her  for  some  years." 

"And  then,"  said  Miss  Rodwell,  "it  was  not  to  be  expected 
that  Crandon  could  sustain  herself  permanently  in  society,  con 
sidering  how  she  first  got  into  it." 

"I  own,"  resumed  Mrs.  Derrington,  "I  was  rather  surprised 
when  I  first  saw  Mrs.  Crandon  among  us.  It  was,  I  believe,  at 
Mrs.  Hautonberg's  famous  thousand  dollar  party,  the  winter  that 
it  was  fashionable  to  report  the  cost  of  those  things ;  so  that,  before 
the  end  of  the  season,  parties  had  mounted  up  to  twice  that  sum. 
How  did  she  happen  to  get  there,  for  it  was  certainly  the  cause  of 
her  having  a  run  all  that  season  ?  I  never  exactly  understood  the 
circumstances." 

"  Oh,  I  can  tell  you  all  about  it,"  replied  Miss  Rodwell ;  "  for  I 
was  in  the  secret.  Mr.  Crandon  was  a  jobber,  and  had  realized  a 
great  deal  of  money,  and  they  lived  in  a  fine  house,  and  made  a 
show,  but  nobody  in  society  ever  thought  of  noticing  them.  After 
a  while  he  took  her  to  Europe,  and  they  spent  several  months  in 
Paris,  and  Mrs.  Crandon  (who,  to  do  her  justice,  was  then  a  very 
handsome  woman)  fitted  herself  out  with  a  variety  of  elegant 
French  dresses,  made  by  an  exquisite  artiste,  and  with  millinery 
equally  recherche.  When  she  came  home,  the  fame  of  all  these 
beautiful  things  spread  beyond  the  limits  of  her  own  circle,  and  we 
were  all  dying  to  see  them  (particularly  the  evening  costumes),  and 
to  borrow  them  as  patterns  for  our  own  mantuamakers  and  milli 
ners.  But  while  she  continued  meandering  about  among  her  own 
set,  we  had  no  chance  of  seeing  much  more  than  the  divine  bonnet 


40  ELIZA   LESLIE. 

and  pelisse  she  wore  in  Broadway,  and  they  only  whetted  our  appe 
tite  for  the  rest.  So  at  one  of  Mrs.  Hautonberg's  soirees,  a  coterie 
of  us  got  together  and  settled  the  plan.  Mrs.  Hautonberg  at  first 
made  some  difficulty,  but  finally  came  into  it,  and  agreed  to  com 
mence  operations  by  calling  on  Mrs.  Crandon  next  day,  and  after 
wards  sending  her  a  note  for  her  great  thousand  dollar  party,x 
which  was  then  in  agitation.  So  she  called,  and  Mr.  Hautonberg 
was  prevailed  on  to  leave  his  card  for  Mr.  Crandon.  They  came 
to  the  party,  thinking  themselves  highly  honoured,  and  we  all  made 
a  point  of  being  introduced  to  the  lady,  and  of  showing  her  all 
possible  civility,  and  of  being  delighted  with  her  harp-playing. 
You  may  be  sure,  we  took  especial  note  of  all  the  minutiae  of  her 
dress,  which  I  must  say  far  excelled  in  taste  and  elegance  every 
other  in  the  room.  And  no  wonder,  when  it  was  fresh  from  France. 
Well,  to  be  brief,  she  was  visited  and  invited,  and  well  treated,  and 
her  beautiful  things  were  borrowed  for  patterns ;  and  by  the  time 
she  had  shown  them  all  round  at  different  parties,  imitations  of 
them  were  to  be  seen  everywhere  throughout  our  circle.  The 
cherry-coloured  velvet  and  the  white  hat  and  feathers  were  among 
them.  She  gave  a  grand  party  herself,  and  as  it  was  at  the  close 
of  the  season,  we  all  honoured  her  with  our  presence.  Poor  woman, 
she  really  thought  all  this  was  to  last.  Next  winter  we  let  her 
gently  down;  some  dropping  her  entirely,  and  a  few  compas 
sionately  dragging  on  with  her  a  while  longer.  Indeed,  I  still  meet 
her  at  two  or  three  houses." 

"  I  am  very  sure  she  was  never  seen  at  Mrs.  Pelham  Prideaux," 
observed  Mrs.  Derrington,  "even  in  the  winter  of  her  glory.  Her 
French  costumes  would  have  been  no  inducement  to  Mrs.  Prideaux, 
whose  station  has  placed  her  far  above  dress." 

"Mrs.  Prideaux  is  rather  too  exclusive,"  said  Miss  Kodwell, 
somewhat  piqued. 

"What  an  enviable  station !"  remarked  Sophia,  "to  be  above 
dress." 

"Well,"  continued  Mrs.  Derrington,  to  Miss  Rodwell,  "what 
did  you  think  of  Mrs.  Cotterell's  party  arrangements  ?  How  were 
the  decorations,  the  supper,  and  all  things  thereunto  belonging?" 


ELIZA  LESLIE.  41 

"  Oh !  just  such  as  we  always  see  in  the  best  houses.  All  in 
scrupulous  accordance  with  the  usual  routine.  Yet  somehow  it 
seemed  to  me  there  was  a  sort  of  parvenu  air  throughout." 

"  "What  were  the  deficiencies  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Derrington. 

"  Oh  !  no  particular  deficiencies,  except  a  want  of  that  inde 
scribable  something  which  can  only  be  found  in  the  mansions  of 
people  of  birth." 

Sophia  could  not  forbear  asking  what  in  republican  America  could 
be  meant  by  people  of  birth.  To  this  Miss  Rodwell  vouchsafed 
no  reply,  but  looking  at  her  watch,  said  it  was  time  to  call  for  Mrs. 
De  Manchester,  whom  she  had  promised  to  accompany  to  Stewart's. 
She  then  departed,  leaving  Mrs.  Derrington  impressed  with  a 
determination  not  to  take  up  the  Cotterells. 

The  stopping  of  a  carriage  was  followed  by  the  entrance  of  Mrs. 
and  Miss  Brockendale.  The  mother  was  a  lady  with  an  ever-varying 
countenance,  and  a  restless  eye.  She  was  expensively  dressed,  bur 
with  her  hair  disordered,  her  bonnet  crushed,  her  collar  crooked, 
her  gown  rumpled,  one  end  of  her  shawl  trailing  on  the  ground, 
and  the  other  end  scarcely  reaching  to  her  elbow.  Her  daughter's 
very  handsome  habiliments  were  arranged  with  the  most  scrupulous 
nicety ;  and  the  young  lady  had  a  steadfast  eye,-  and  a  resolute  and 
determined  expression  of  face.  All  her  features  were  regular,  but 
the  tout  ensemble  was  not  agreeable. 

After  some  very  desultory  conversation,  Mrs.  Derrington  recur 
red  to  the  subject  that  was  uppermost  in  her  mind,  Mrs.  Cotterell's 
party ;  and  on  finding  that  the  Brockendale  ladies  had  been  there, 
she  again  inquired  about  it ;  observing  that  much  as  she  had  heard 
of  it  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  she  had  still  obtained  no  satis 
factory  account.  "  How  did  it  really  go  off?"  said  she,  addressing 
Miss  Brockendale ;  but  the  mother  eagerly  answered,  and  the 
daughter  finding  herself  anticipated,  closed  her  lips  firmly,  and 
drew  back  her  head. 

"  Oh  !  delightfully,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brockendale.  "  Everything 
was  so  elegant,  and  in  such  good  taste,  and  on  such  a  liberal 
scale." 

"How  were  the  rooms  decorated?"  asked  Mrs.  Derrington. 

6 


42  ELIZA   LESLIE. 

"  Oh  !  superbly,  with  flowers  wreathed  around  the  columns." 

"  Mrs.  Cotterell's  rooms  have  no  pillars,"  said  Miss  Brockendale, 
speaking  very  audibly  and  distinctly,  and  addressing  herself  to 
Sophia,  near  whom  she  was  seated. 

"  Well,  then,"  continued  Mrs.  Brockendale,  "  there  were  wreaths 
festooned  along  the  walls.  You  cannot  say  there  were  no  walls." 

"  There  were  no  wreaths  except  those  that  ornamented  the  lamps 
and  chandeliers,"  said  Miss  Brockendale,  always  addressing  Sophia. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  the  flowers  were  all  about  the  lights.  That  was  what 
made  them  look  so  pretty.  One  thing  I  am  certain  of,  the  rooms 
were  as  light  as  day.  There  must  have  been  five  hundred  candles." 

"  There  was  not  one,"  said  Miss  Brockendale  to  Sophia.  "  The 
rooms  were  lighted  entirely  with  gas." 

"  Well,  it  might  have  been  a  sort  of  gas.  I  declare  my  head  is 
always  so  filled  with  things  of  importance,  that  I  have  no  memory 
for  trifles.  This  I  know,  that  the  furniture  was  all  crimson  velvet 
trimmed  with  gold-colour." 

"  It  was  blue  satin  damask  trimmed  with  a  rich  dark  brown," 
said  her  daughter  to  Miss  Fayland. 

"  Well,  the  crimson  might  have  had  a  bluish  cast.  I  have  cer 
tainly  seen  crimson  velvet  somewhere.  The  truth  is,  almost  as 
soon  as  we  entered,  I  saw  my  friend  Mr.  Weston,  the  member  of 
Congress  (either  from  Greenbay  or  Georgetown,  I  forget  which), 
and  so  we  got  to  talking  about  Texas  and  things ;  and  that  may  be 
the  reason  I  did  not  particularly  notice  the  rooms.  I  almost  got 
into  a  quarrel  with  this  same  Congress-man  about  the  President, 
who,  in  spite  of  all  I  could  say,  Mr.  Weston  persisted  in  declaring 
has  never  threatened  to  go  to  war  with  Germany." 

"Neither  he  has,"  said  Miss  Brockendale,  this  time  directing 
her  looks  to  her  mother. 

"  Then  he  has  set  himself  against  railroads,  or  injured  the  crops, 
or  invited  over  five  hundred  thousand  millions  of  Irish." 

"  He  has  done  none  of  these  things." 

"  He  has  done  something,  I  am  very  sure.  Or,  if  he  has  not, 
some  other  President  has.  I  never  can  remember  how  the  Presi- 


ELIZA   LESLIE.  43 

dents  go,  and  perhaps  I  am  apt  to  mix  them  up,  my  head  being 
always  full  of  more  important  objects." 

"I  hear  there  was  a  very  elegant  supper,"  said  Mrs.  Derring- 
ton. 

"  I  believe  there  was.  But  all  supper-time  I  was  talking  about 
the  tariff,  and  the  theatre,  and  the  army  and  navy,  and  I  did  not 
notice  the  things  on  the  table.  I  rather  think  there  was  ice-cream, 
and  I  am  almost  positive  there  was  jelly." 

"  Had  you  fine  music  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Derrington. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  I  heard  music.  But  I  was  talking  then 
to  Mr.  Van  Valkenburgh,  who  has  travelled  over  half  the  world ; 
mostly  pedestrian,  poor  fellow  !" 

"  He  is  not  a  poor  fellow,"  explained  her  daughter  to  Sophia. 
"  He  is  a  rich  bachelor,  and  a  great  botanist,  and  entomologist ; 
and  when  he  rambles  on  foot,  it  is  always  from  his  own  choice." 

"Augustina,"  said  her  mother,  "do  not  you  recollect  we  met 
Mr.  Van  Valkenburgh  somewhere  in  Europe,  when  we  were  travel 
ling  with  the  Tirealls?" 

"I  never  was  in  Europe,"  said  Augustina  to  Sophia.  "When 
mamma  went  over,  she  took  my  sister  Isabella,  but  left  me  a  little 
girl  at  boarding-school." 

"  So  you  were  a  little  girl  at  boarding-school ;  I  remember  all 
about  it,"  continued  Mrs.  Brockendale,  "  and  I  did  take  Isabella, 
because  she  was  grown  up.  She  is  married  now,  poor  thing,  to  a 
man  that  never  crossed  the  Atlantic,  and  never  will,  and  so  her 
going  to  Europe  was  of  no  manner  of  use.  "What  a  strange  girl 
she  was.  When  we  were  at  Venice  she  would  make  me  go  every 
where  in  a  boat — even  to  church." 

"You  could  not  well  go  in  anything  else,"  remarked  Augustina. 

"  And  then  at  Venice,  she  highly  offended  the  showman  by  ring 
ing  the  great  bell  of  St.  Mark's." 

"  She  could  not  get  at  it." 

"  Then  it  must  have  been  at  St.  Peter's,  or  St.  Paul's,  or  else 
Notre  Dame.  Any  how,  she  rung  a  bell." 

"My  sister  has  told  me,"  said  Augustina,  turning  to  Sophia, 
"  that  coming  out  of  a  village  church  in  England,  she  took  a  fancy 


44  ELIZA   LESLIE. 

to  pull  the  bell-rope,  as  it  hung  invitingly  down  just  within  the 
entrance ;  and  she  greatly  scandalized  the  beadle  by  doing  so,  still 
she  pacified  him  with  a  shilling." 

"But  now  about  Mr.  Van  Valkenburgh,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Brock- 
endale,  "  this  I  am  certain  of,  that  we  met  him  on  the  Alps,  and 
we  were  joined  up  there  by  old  General  Offenham  and  his  son,  who 
was  much  taken  with  Isabella.  It  might  have  been  a  match,  for 
the  young  man  will  be  a  half-millionaire  one  of  these  days ;  but  he 
has  fits,  and  rolls  down  mountains.  So  that  rather  discouraged  us, 
and  we  thought  that  nobody  would  ever  marry  him.  Yet,  after 
wards,  at  Paris,  or  Portsmouth,  or  some  of  those  places,  the  widow 
Sweeting  snapped  up  young  Offenham,  for  her  third  husband.  So 
Isabella  might  as  well  have  taken  him." 

"My  sister,"  said  Augustina,  turning  to  Sophia,  "is  happily 
married  to  a  man  of  sense,  as  well  as  of  large  fortune,  and  high 
respectability." 

"Mr.  Van  Valkenburgh,"  pursued  Mrs.  Brockendale,  "was 
.  telling  how  delightful  he  found  the  literary  society  of  England.  I 
wish  I  had  been  in  it,  when'  I  was  there.  He  became  acquainted 
with  them  all.  He  even  knew  Shakspeare." 

"His  plays,  of  course,"  said  Sophia. 

"  Oh !  no,  the  man  himself.  Shakspeare  called  on  him  at  the 
hotel,  and  left  his  card  for  Mr.  Van  Valkenburgh." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Sophia,  "Shakspeare  has  been  dead  consi 
derably  more  than  two  hundred  years." 

"Ah!  my  dear  young  lady,"  observed  Mrs.  Brockendale,  "you 
know  we  must  not  believe  all  we  hear." 

"Mamma,  we  had  best  go  home,"  said  her  daughter,  who  had 
sat  for  some  moments  looking  as  if  too  angry  to  speak,  leaving  to 
Sophia  the  explanation  concerning  Shakspeare. 

Mrs.  Brockendale  rose  to  depart.  "If  it  was  not  Shakspeare 
that  called  on  him,  it  must  have  been  Dr.  Johnson,"  said  she. 
"Any  how,  it  was  some  great  author." 

They  then  took  their  leave,  Miss  Brockendale  expressing  a  desire 
to  be  intimately  acquainted  with  Miss  Fayland. 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Brockendale,"  said  Sophia,  "  her  head  reminds  me 


ELIZA   LESLIE.  45 

of  a  lumber  room,  where  all  sorts  of  things  are  stowed  away  in 
confusion.  My  father  thinks  that  a  defective  memory  is  generally 
the  result  of  careless  or  inattentive  observation.  But  perhaps  this 
lady  was  never  gifted  with  the  capacity  of  seeing  or  hearing  things 
understandingly. ' ' 

"  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  daughter  has  no  patience  with  the 
mother,"  said  Mrs.  Derrington.  "However,  they  are  persons  of 
birth,  and  live  handsomely,  and  are  visited.  We  cannot  expect 
everybody  in  society  to  be  alike.  Unfortunately,  Mr.  Brocken- 
dale,  who  was  a  most  excellent  man,  and  doated  on  his  queer  wife, 
and  tried  hard  to  improve  her,  died  ten  years  ago,  and  since  losing 
his  guidance,  she  has  talked  more  like  a  fool  than  ever.  And 
worse  than  all,  every  article  of  her  dress  seems  to  be  continually 
getting  into  disorder.  As  soon  as  her  things  are  put  right,  they 
somehow  get  wrong  again." 

The  next  visitors  were  two  rather  insipid  ladies,  and  soon  after 
came  in  a  remarkably  handsome  young  man,  dressed  in  the  most 
perfect  taste,  but  without  the  slightest  approach  to  what  is  called 
dandyism.  He  had  the  air  distingue  which  foreigners  say  is  so 
rarely  to  be  found  among  the  citizens  of  America.  He  was  intro 
duced  to  Sophia  as  Mr.  Percival  Grafton,  and  she  thought  he  looked 
exactly  like  a  young  nobleman,  or  rather  as  a  young  nobleman  ought 
to  look ;  and  she  was  still  more  delighted  with  his  conversation. 
After  some  very  pleasant  interchange  of  ideas  with  Miss  Fayland, 
he  inquired  of  Mrs.  Derrington  if  she  had  yet  become  acquainted 
with  Mrs.  Cotterell  and  her  charming  daughter. 

"Not  yet,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Then  let  me  advise  you  by  all  means  not  to  delay  what  I  am 
sure  will  afford  much  pleasure  to  yourself  and  Miss  Fayland.  The 
Cotterells  are  delightful  people ;  polished,  intelligent,  natural,  and 
having  Vair  comme  ilfaut,  as  if  it  had  been  born  with  them.  Miss 
Cotterell  is  one  of  the  loveliest  girls  I  have  ever  seen ;  and  does 
infinite  honour  to  the  system  on  which  her  mother  has  educated 
her." 

"Does  she  dress  well?"  inquired  Mrs.  Derrington. 

"Charmingly,"  replied  Grafton,  "and  she  could  not  do  other- 


46  ELIZA    LESLIE. 

wise,  her  good  taste  is  so  apparent  in  everything.  She  dresses 
well,  talks  well,  moves  well,  and  plays  and  sings  delightfully.  I 
heard  her  speaking  French  to  Madame  St.  Ange,  with  the  utmost 
fluency  and  elegance.  She  is  really  a  most  enchanting  girl." 

"You  seem  to  be  quite  smitten!"  remarked  Miss  Waterly,  one 
of  the  insipid  young  ladies. 

"  Not  to  admire  such  a  woman  as  Amelia  Cotterell  would  evince 
the  most  pitiable  insensibility  to  the  united  attractions  of  beauty, 
grace,  and  talent.  But  in  the  usual  acceptation  of  the  phrase,  I  am 
yet  heart-whole.  How  long  I  may  remain  so  is  another  question." 

Mr.  Grafton  then  turned  the  conversation  to  another  subject,  and 
he  soon  after  took  his  leave. 

"Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Derrington,"  said  Miss  Milkby,  the  other 
insipid  young  lady,  "it's  all  over  town  already,  that  Percival 
Grafton  is  dying  in  love  with  Amelia  Cotterell.  So  you  must  not 
believe  exactly  all  he  says  about  her  and  her  mother." 

"He  really  seems  delirious,"  said  Miss  Waterly. 

Mrs.  Derrington  became  again  dubious  about  taking  up  the  Cot- 
terells.  But  her  doubts  grew  fainter  as  she  reflected  that  Percival 
Grafton  was  a  young  gentleman  of  acknowledged  taste  in  all  that 
was  refined  and  elegant ;  being  himself  a  person  of  birth,  and  "  to 
the  manner  born"  of  the  best  society.  Even  his  grandfather  was  an 
eminent  lawyer,  and  Percival  himself  had  been  inducted  into  that 
high  profession. 

While  Mrs.  Derrington  sat,  "pondering  in  her  mind,"  Sophia 
was  endeavouring  to  entertain  the  Misses  Waterly  and  Milkby, 
when  her  aunt  suddenly  started  from  her  reverie,  and,  her  face 
beaming  with  ecstatic  joy,  advanced  in  eager  empressement  to 
receive  a  lady,  whom  the  servant,  throwing  wide  the  door,  an 
nounced  as  Mrs.  Pelham  Prideaux.  When  Mrs.  Derrington  had  a 
little  recovered  the  first  excitement  of  this  supreme  felicity,  and 
placed  her  high  and  mighty  guest  in  the  easiest  fauteuil,  and  seen 
her  well  served  with  refreshments,  she  recollected  to  introduce  her 
niece,  Miss  Sophia  Fayland.  The  two  other  misses  had  long  been 
within  the  pale  of  Mrs.  Prideaux' s  notice,  and  they  timidly  hoped 
she  was  well. 


ELIZA    LESLIE.  47 

This  arbitress  of  fashion,  this  dictatress  to  society,  was  a  woman 
of  no  particular  face,  no  particular  figure,  no  particular  dress,  and 
no  particular  conversation.  But  she  was  wTell  aware  of  her  position, 
and  made  use  of  it  accordingly. 

Mrs.  Derrington,  whose  whole  morning  had  been  one  long  thought 
of  the  Cotterells  (whenever  she  had  a  new  thought  she  always  pur 
sued  it  a  Voutrance\  said  something  about  the  party  of  last  night. 

"Were  you  there?"  asked  Mrs.  Prideaux. 

"  Oh  !  no.  Mrs.  Cotterell  has  come  among  us  so  lately,  I  know 
not  exactly  in  what  circle  she  will  be." 

"You  might  have  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Prideaux,  "I  intend  calling 
on  her." 

"Do  you,  indeed?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Derrington,  with  glad  sur 
prise.  And  Sophia's  face  brightened  also ;  for  she  longed  to  know 
the  Cotterells,  and  she  saw  that  all  doubt  was  now  over. 

Miss  Waterly  and  Miss  Milkby  now  acknowledged  that  they  had 
both  been  at  the  party,  and  that  they  had  liked  it. 

"When  do  you  make  this  call,  my  dear  Mrs.  Prideaux?"  asked 
Mrs.  Derrington. 

"I  have  not  exactly  determined  on  the  day,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  hope  Sophia  and  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you 
there,"  said  Mrs.  Derrington.  "When  you  have  fixed  on  the 
exact  time,  will  you  let  us  know?" 

"  Certainly,  I  can  have  no  objection,"  answered  Mrs.  Prideaux, 
graciously,  "  provided  I  know  it  myself. 

"  How  kind  you  always  are  !  It  will  be  so  delightful  for  us  to 
be  at  Mrs.  Cotterell's  together.  Will  it  not,  Sophy1?" 

"  On  consideration,  I  cannot  make  this  call  before  next  week," 

said  Mrs.  Prideaux. 

% 

"  Oh !  never  mind.  Consult  your  own  convenience.  We  will 
wait  for  you." 

"Where  does  Mrs.  Cotterell  live?"  inquired  the  great  lady. 

Miss  Waterly  and  Miss  Milkby  now  both  spoke  together,  and 
designated  the  place.  Mrs.  Prideaux  condescendingly  thanked 
them  for  the  information. 

"Then,"  said  she  to  Mrs.  Derrington,  "as  I  must  pass  your 


48  ELIZA    LESLIE. 

door  in  going  there,  I  may  as  well  call  for  you  in  my  carriage, 
whenever  I  do  go." 

Mrs.  Derrington  was  too  happy  at  this  unexpected  glory ;  and 
Miss  Waterly  and  Miss  Milkby  too  envious.  All  these  young 
ladies  could  do  was  to  accompany  Mrs.  Prideaux  when  she  departed, 
and  be  seen  leaving  the  door  at  the  same  time  with  her.  She  hon 
oured  them  with  a  bow  as  they  lingered  on  the  door-step,  when  her 
no-particular-sort-of-carriage  drove  away.  Unluckily,  there  chanced 
to  be  no  spectators  but  a  small  party  of  German  emigrants,  and 
two  schoolboys.  Perhaps  some  of  the  neighbours  might  have  been 
at  their  windows. 

The  following  Monday  and  Tuesday,  Mrs.  Derrington  and  Miss 
Fayland  stayed  at  home  all  the  morning  ready-dressed,  waiting  in 
vain  for  Mrs.  Prideaux  to  call  for  them  in  her  carriage. 

"  Surely,"  said  Sophia,  "  she  will  apprise  us  in  time  ?" 

"  She  may  probably  not  think  of  doing  so,"  replied  Mrs. 
Derrington. 

At  last  on  Wednesday  the  joyful  moment  arrived  when  the  vehi 
cle  of  Mrs.  Pelham  Prideaux,  with  that  lady  in  it,  drew  up  to  the 
door  of  Mrs.  Derrington,  who  ran  down  stairs,  followed  by  her 
niece  ;  and  in  a  very  short  time  they  arrived  at  the  mansion  of  the 
Cotterells. 


CAROLINE  GILMAN. 


OP  our  living  authoresses,  no  one  has  been  so  long  before  the  public, 
and  at  the  same  time  retained  her  place  so  entirely  in  its  affections,  as 
Mrs.  Caroline  Gilman. 

Her  first  publications,  which  were  poems,  commenced  as  early  as  1810. 
Among  these,  "  Jephthah's  Rash  Vow,"  and  "  Jairus'  Daughter/'  attracted 
particular  attention.  Her  importance  as  a  prose  writer  begins  with  the 
"  Southern  Rose  Bud,"  a  weekly  juvenile  paper,  which  she  began  in  1832, 
and  continued  for  seven  years.  This  miscellany  contains  a  large  amount 
of  valuable  literature,  and  is  especially  rich  in  contributions  from  Mrs. 
Gilman7  s  own  pen.  Her  other  publications  have  been  as  follows  :  "  Re 
collections  of  a  New  England  Housekeeper,"  "  Recollections  of  a  Southern 
Matron"  (both  running  through  a  large  number  of  editions),  "  Ruth  Ray 
mond;  or  Love's  Progress,"  "  Poetry  of  Travelling,"  "  Tales  and  Ballads," 
"  Letters  of  Eliza  Wilkinson"  (written  during  the  invasion  of  Charles 
ton  by  the  British),  "  Verses  of  a  Lifetime,"  "  The  Oracles  from  the 
Poets,"  "  The  Sibyl,"  and  several  juvenile  books  now  collected  under  the 
general  title  of  "  Mrs.  Oilman's  Gift." 

The  following  graceful  piece  of  autobiography  will  serve  the  double 
purpose  of  a  specimen  of  her  style,  and  a  narrative  of  her  life. 


MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

I  AM  asked  for  some  "  particulars  of  my  literary  and  domestic 
life."  It  seems  to  me,  and  I  suppose  at  first  thought,  it  seems  to 
all,  a  vain  and  awkward  egotism  to  sit  down  and  inform  the  world 
who  you  are.  But  if  I,  like  the  Petrarchs,  and  Byrons,  and 

Hemanses,  greater  or  less,  have  opened  my  heart  to  the  public  for 
7  (49) 


50  CAROLINE   GILMAN. 

a  series  of  years,  with  all  the  pulses  of  love  and  hatred  and  sor 
row  so  transparently  unveiled,  that  the  throbs  may  be  almost 
counted,  why  should  I  or  they  feel  embarrassed  in  responding  to 
this  request?  Is  there  not  some  inconsistency  in  this  shyness 
about  autobiography? 

I  find  myself,  then,  at  nearly  sixty  years  of  age,  somewhat  of  a 
patriarch  in  the  line  of  American  female  authors — a  kind  of  Past 
Master  in  the  order. 

The  only  interesting  point  connected  with  my  birth,  which  took 
place  October  8th,  1794,  in  Boston,  Mass.,  is  that  I  first  saw  the 
light  where  the  Mariners'  Church  now  stands,  in  the  North  Square. 
My  father,  Samuel  Howard,  was  a  shipwright,  and  to  my  fancy  it 
seems  fitting,  that  seamen  should  assemble  on  the  former  homestead 
of  one  who  spent  his  manhood  in  planning  and  perfecting  the  noble 
fabrics  which  bear  them  over  the  waves.  All  the  record  I  have  of 
him  is,  that  on  every  State  thanksgiving  day  he  spread  a  liberal 
table  for  the  poor,  and  for  this  I  honour  his  memory. 

My  mother  descended  from  the  family  of  the  Brecks,  a  branch 
of  which  is  located  in  Philadelphia  as  well  as  in  Boston,  and  which, 
by  those  who  love  to  look  into  such  matters,  is  traced,  as  far  as  I 
have  heard,  to  1703  in  America. 

The  families  of  1794  in  the  North  Square,  have  changed  their 
abode.  Our  pastor,  the  good  Dr.  Lathrop,  minister  of  the  "  Old 
North,"  then  resided  at  the  head  of  the  Square — the  Mays, 
Reveres,  and  others,  being  his  neighbours. 

It  appears  to  me,  that  I  remember  my  baptism  on  a  cold  Novem 
ber  morning,  in  the  aisle  of  the  old  North,  and  how  my  minister 
bent  over  me  with  one  of  the  last  bush-wigs  of  that  century,  and 
touched  his  finger  to  my  befrilled  little  forehead :  but  being  only 
five  weeks  old,  and  not  a  very  precocious  babe,  I  suppose  I  must 
have  learned  it  from  oral  tradition. 

I  presume,  also,  I  am  under  the  same  hallucination,  when  I  see 
myself,  at  two  years  of  age,  sitting  on  a  little  elevated  triangular 
seat,  in  the  corner  of  the  pew,  with  red  morocco  shoes,  clasped  with 
silver  buckles,  turning  the  movable  balusters,  which  modern  archi 
tects  have  so  unkindly  taken  away  from  children  in  churches. 


CAROLINE  OILMAN.  51 

My  father  died  before  I  was  three  years  old,  and  was  buried  at 
Copp's  Hill.  A  few  years  since,  I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  that  most 
ancient  and  interesting  cemetery,  but  its  grass-covered  vaults 
revealed  to  me  nothing  of  him. 

My  mother,  who  was  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  nature,  retired  into 
the  country  with  her  six  children,  and  placing  her  boys  at  an  aca 
demy  at  Woburn,  resided  with  her  girls  in  turn  at  Concord,  Ded- 
ham,  Watertown,  and  Cambridge,  changing  her  residence,  almost 
annually,  until  I  was  nearly  ten  years  old,  when  she  passed  away, 
and  I  followed  her  to  her  resting-place,  in  the  burial-ground  at 
North  Andrews. 

Either  childhood  is  not  the  thoughtless  period  for  which  it  is 
famed,  or  my  susceptibility  to  suffering  was  peculiar.  I  remember 
much  physical  pain.  I  recollect,  and  I  think  Bunyan,  the  author 
of  Pilgrim's  Progress,  describes  the  same,  a  deep  horror  .at  dark 
ness,  a  suffocation,  a  despair,  a  sense  of  Jnjury  when  left  alone  at 
night,  that  has  since  made  me  tender  to  this  mysterious  trial  of 
youth.  I  recollect  also  my  indignation  after  a  chastisement  for 
breaking  some  china,  and  in  consequence  I  have  always  been  careful 
never  to  express  anger  at  children  or  servants  for  a  similar 
misfortune. 

In  contrast  to  this,  come  the  memories  of  chasing  butterflies, 
launching  chips  for  boats  on  sunny  rills,  dressing  dolls,  embroider 
ing  the  glowing  sampler,  and  the  soft  maternal  mesmerism  of  my 
mother's  hand,  when,  with  my  head  reclined  on  her  knee,  she 
smoothed  my  hair,  and  sang  the  fine  old  song 

"  In  the  downhill  of  life." 

As  Wordsworth  says  in  his  almost  garrulous  enthusiasm, 

"  Fair  seed-time  had  my  soul,  and  I  grew  up 
Fostered  alike  by  beauty  and  by  fear ; 
Much  favoured  in  my  birth-place." 

I  say  birth-place,  for  true  life  is  not  stamped  on  the  spot  where 
our  eyes  first  open,  but  our  mind-birth  comes  from  the  varied  asso 
ciations  of  childhood,  and  therefore  may  I  trace  to  the  wild  influ 
ences  of  nature,  particularly  to  those  of  sweet  Auburn,  now  the 
Cambridge  Cemetery,  the  formation  of  whatever  I  may  possess  of 


52  CAROLINE   GILMAN. 

the  poetical  temperament.  Residing  just  at  its  entrance,  I  passed 
long  summer  mornings  making  thrones  and  couches  of  moss,  and 
listening  to  the  robins  and  blackbirds. 

The  love  of  the  beautiful  then  was  quite  undeveloped  in  social 
life  ;  the  dead  reposed  by  roadside  burial-grounds,  the  broken  stone 
walls  of  which  scarcely  sheltered  the  sod  which  covered  them. 
Now  all  is  changed  in  those  haunts  of  my  childhood,  and  perchance 
costly  monuments  in  Mount  Auburn  have  risen  on  the  sites  of  my 
moss-covered  thrones. 

Our  residence  was  nearly  opposite  Governor  Gerry's,  and  we 
were  frequent  visitors  there.  One  evening  I  saw  a  small  book  on 
the  recessed  window-seat  of  their  parlour.  It  was  Gesner's  Death 
of  Abel ;  I  opened  it,  spelt  out  its  contents,  and  soon  tears  began 
to  flow.  Eager  to  finish  it,  and  ashamed  of  emotions  so  novel,  I 
screened  my  little  self  so  as  to  allow  the  light  to  fall  only  on  the 
book,  and,  while  forgotten  by  the  group,  I  also  forgetting  the  music 
and  mirth  that  surrounded  me,  I  shed,  at  eight  years,  the  first  pre 
luding  tears  over  fictitious  sorrow. 

It  was  formerly  the  custom  for  countrypeople  in  Massachusetts 
to  visit  Boston  in  throngs  on  election  day,  and  see  the  Governor 
sit  in  his  chair  on  the  Common.  This  pleasure  was  promised  me, 
and  a  neighbouring  farmer  was  good  enough  to  offer  to  take  me  to 
my  uncle  Phillips' s.  Therefore,  soon  after  sunrise,  I  was  dressed 
in  my  best  frock,  and  red  shoes,  and  with  a  large  peony  called  a 
'lection  posey,  in  one  hand,  and  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  in  the  other, 
I  sprang  with  a  merry  heart  into  the  chaise,  my  imagination  teeming 
with  soldiers,  and  sights,  and  sugar-plums,  and  a  vague  thought  of 
something  like  a  huge  giant  sitting  in  a  big  chair,  overtopping 
everybody. 

I  was  an  incessant  talker  when  travelling,  therefore  the  time 
seemed  short  when  I  was  landed,  as  I  supposed,  at  my  uncle  Phillips's 
door,  and  the  farmer  drove  away.  But  what  was  my  distress  at 
finding  myself  among  strangers  !  Entirely  ignorant  of  my  uncle's 
direction,  I  knew  not  what  to  say.  In  vain  a  cluster  of  kind  ladies 
tried  to  soothe  and  amuse  me  with  promises  of  playmates  and  toys; 
a  sense  of  utter  loneliness  and  intrusion  kept  me  in  tears.  At 


CAROLINE   GIL  MAN.  53 

sunset,  the  good  farmer  returned  for  me,  and  I  burst  into  a  new 
agony  of  grief.  I  have  never  forgotten  that  long,  long  day  with 
the  kind  and  hospitable,  but  wrong  Phillipses.  If  this  statement 
should  chance  to  be  read  and  remembered  by  them,  at  this  far 
interval,  I  beg  them  to  receive  the  thanks  which  the  timid  child 
neglected  to  give  to  her  stranger-friends. 

I  had  seen  scarcely  any  children's  books  except  the  Primer,  and 
at  the  age  of  ten,  no  poetry  adapted  to  my  age ;  therefore,  without 
presumption,  I  may  claim  some  originality  for  an  attempt  at  an 
acrostic  on  an  infant,  by  the  name  of  Howard,  beginning — 

How  sweet  is  the  half  opened  rose  ! 
Oh,  how  sweet  is  the  violet  to  view! 
Who  receives  more  pleasure  from  them, 

Here  it  seems  I  broke  down  in  the  acrostic  department,  and 
went  on — 

Than  the  one  who  thinks  them  like  you  ? 
Yes,  yes,  you're  a  sweet  little  rose, 
That  will  bloom  like  one  awhile  ; 
And  then  you  will  be  like  one  still, 
For  I  hope  you  will  die  without  guile. 

The  Davidsons,  at  the  same  age,  would,  I  suppose,  have  smiled 
at  this  poor  rhyming,  but  in  vindication  of  my  ten-year-old-ship  I 
must  remark,  that  they  were  surrounded  by  the  educational  light 
of  the  present  era,  while  I  was  in  the  dark  age  of  1805. 

My  education  was  exceedingly  irregular,  a  perpetual  passing 
from  school  to  school,  from  my  earliest  memory.  I  drew  a  very 
little,  and  worked  the  "Babes  in  the  Woods"  on  white  satin,  in  floss 
silk ;  my  teacher  and  my  grandmother  being  the  only  persons  who 
recognised  in  the  remarkable  individuals  that  issued  from  my  hands 
a  likeness  to  those  innocent  sufferers. 

I  taught  myself  the  English  guitar  at  the  age  of  fifteen  from 
hearing  a  schoolmate  take  lessons,  and  ambitiously  made  a  tune, 
which  I  doubt  if  posterity  will  care  to  hear.  By  depriving  myself 
of  some  luxuries,  I  purchased  an  instrument,  over  which  my  whole 
soul  was  poured  in  joy  and  sorrow  for  many  years.  A  dear  friend, 
who  shared  my  desk  at  school,  was  kind  enough  to  work  out  all  my 


54  CAKOLINE   GILMAN. 

sums  for  me  (there  were  no  black-boards  then),  while  I  wrote  a 
novel  in  a  series  of  letters,  under  the  euphonious  name  of  Eugenia 
Fitz  Allen.  The  consequence  is  that,  so  far  as  arithmetic  is  con 
cerned,  I  have  been  subject  to  perpetual  mortifications  ever  since, 
and  shudder  to  this  day  when  any  one  asks  me  how  much  is  seven 
times  nine. 

I  never  could  remember  the  multiplication  table,  and,  to  heap 
coals  of  fire  on  its  head  in  revenge,  set  it  to  rhyme.  I  wrote  my 
school  themes  in  rhyme,  and  instead  of  following  "Beauty  soon 
decays,"  and  "  Cherish  no  ill  designs,"  in  B  and  C,  I  surprised  my 
teacher  with — 

"  Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes  may  roll, 
Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins  the  soul." 

My  teacher,  who  at  that  period  was  more  ambitious  for  me  than 
I  was  for  myself,  initiated  me  into  Latin,  a  great  step  for  that 
period. 

The  desire  to  gratify  a  friend  induced  me  to  study  Watts's  Logic. 
I  did  commit  it  to  memory  conscientiously,  but  on  what  an  unge- 
nial  soil  it  fell !  I  think,  to  this  day,  that  science  is  the  dryest  of 
intellectual  chips,  and  for  sorry  quibblings,  and  self-evident  propo 
sitions,  syllogisms  are  only  equalled  by  legal  instruments,  for  which, 
by  the  way,  I  have  lately  seen  a  call  for  reform.  Spirits  of  Locke, 
and  Brown,  and  Whewell,  forgive  me  ! 

About  this  period  I  walked  four  miles  a  week  to  Boston  to  join 
a  private  class  in  French. 

The  religious  feeling  was  always  powerful  within  me.  I  remem 
ber,  in  girlhood,  a  passionate  joy  in  lonely  prayer,  and  a  delicious 
elevation,  when  with  upraised  look,  I  trod  my  chamber  floor,  recit 
ing  or  singing  Watts's  Sacred  Lyrics.  At  sixteen  I  joined  the 
Communion  at  the  Episcopal  Church  in  Cambridge. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  I  made  another  sacrifice  in  dress  to  pur 
chase  a  Bible  with  a  margin  sufficiently  large  to  enable  me  to  insert 
a  commentary.  To  this  object  I  devoted  several  months  of  study, 
transferring  to  its  pages  my  deliberate  convictions. 

I  am  glad  to  class  myself  with  the  few  who  first  established  the 


CAROLINE   GILMAN.  55 

Sabbath  School  and  Benevolent  Society  at  "Watertown,  and  to  say 
that  I  have  endeavoured,  under  all  circumstances,  wherever  my  lot 

has  fallen,  to  carry  on  the  work  of  social  love. 

*  *  *  * 

At  the  age  of  sixteen  I  wrote  "  Jephthah's  Rash  Vow."  I  was 
gratified  by  the  request  of  an  introduction  from  Miss  Hannah 
Adams,  the  erudite,  the  simple-minded,  and  gentle-mannered  author 
of  the  History  of  Religions.  After  her  warm  expressions  of  praise 
for  my  verses,  I  said  to  her, 

"  Oh,  Miss  Adams,  how  strange  to  hear  a  lady,  who  knows  so 
much,  admire  me !" 

"My  dear,"  replied  she,  with  her  little  lisp,  "my  writings  are 
merely  compilations,  Jephthah  is  your  own." 

This  incident  is  a  specimen  of  her  habitual  humility. 

To  show  the  change  from  that  period,  I  will  remark,  that  when 
I  learned  that  my  verses  had  been  surreptitiously  printed  in  a  news 
paper,  I  wept  bitterly,  and  was  as  alarmed  as  if  I  had  been  detected 
in  man's  apparel. 

The  next  effusion  of  mine  was  "Jairus's  Daughter,"  which  I 
inserted,  by  request,  in  the  North  American  Review,  then  a 
miscellany. 

A  few  years  later  I  passed  four  winters  at  Savannah,  and 
remember  still  vividly,  the  love  and  sympathy  of  that  genial 
community. 

In  1819  I  married  Samuel  Oilman,  and  came  to  Charleston, 
S.  C.,  where  he  was  ordained  pastor  of  the  Unitarian  Church 

In  1832,  I  commenced  editing  the  "Rose  Bud,"  a  hebdomadal, 
the  first  juvenile  newspaper,  if  I  mistake  not,  in  the  Union.  Mrs. 
Child  had  led  the  way  in  her  monthly  miscellany,  to  my  apprehen 
sion  the  most  perfect  work  that  has  ever  appeared  for  youth.  The 
"  Rose  Bud"  gradually  unfolded  through  seven  volumes,  taking  the 
title  of  the  "  Southern  Rose,"  and  being  the  vehicle  of  some  rich 
literature  and  valuable  criticism. 

From  this  periodical  I  have  reprinted,  at  various  times,  the 
following  volumes : 

"  Recollections  of  a  New  England  Housekeeper ;"  "  Recollections 


56  CAROLINE   GILMAN. 

of  a  Southern  Matron;"  "Ruth  Raymond,  or  Love's  Progress;" 
"Poetry  of  Travelling  in  the  United  States;"  "Tales  and  Bal 
lads;"  "Verses  of  a  Lifetime;"  "Letters  of  Eliza  Wilkinson, 
during  the  invasion  of  Charleston;"  also,  several  volumes  for 
youth,  now  collected  in  one,  and  recently  republished,  as  "Mrs. 
Oilman's  Gift  Book."  The  "Poetry  of  Travelling,"  "Tales  and 
Ballads,"  and  "  Eliza  Wilkinson,"  are  out  of  print.  The  "  Oracles 
from  the  Poets,"  and  "The  Sibyl,"  which  occupied  me  two  years, 
are  of  later  date. 

On  the  publication  of  the  "  Recollections  of  a  New  England 
Housekeeper,"  I  received  thanks  and  congratulations  from  every 
quarter,  and  I  attribute  its  popularity  to  the  fact  that  it  was  the 
first  attempt,  in  that  particular  mode,  to  enter  into  the  recesses  of 
American  homes  and  hearths,  the  first  unveiling  of  what  I  may  call 
the  altar  of  the  Lares  in  our  cuisine. 

I  feel  proud  to  say  that  a  chapter  in  that  work  was  among  the 
first  heralds  of  the  temperance  movement,  a  cause  to  which  I  shall 
cheerfully  give  my  later  as  well  as  earlier  powers. 

My  ambition  has  never  been  to  write  a  novel;  in  the  "Matron" 
and  "Clarissa  Packard"  it  will  be  seen  that  the  story  is  a  mere 
hinge  for  facts. 

After  the  publication  of  the  "Poetry  of  Travelling,"  I  opened 
to  a  notice  in  a  review,  and  was  greeted  with,  "  This  affectation  will 
never  do."  It  has  amused  me  since  to  notice  how  "this  affecta 
tion"  has  spread,  until  we  have  now  the  "Poetry  of  Teaching," 
and  the  "Poetry  of  Science." 

My  only  pride  is  in  my  books  for  children.  I  have  never  thought 
myself  a  poet,  only  a  versifier ;  but  I  know  that  I  have  learned  the 
way  to  youthful  hearts,  and  I  think  I  have  originated  several  styles 
of  writing  for  them. 

While  dwelling  on  the  above  sketch,  I  have  discovered  the  diffi 
culty  of  autobiography,  in  the  impossibility  of  referring  to  one's 
faults.  Perchance  were  I  to  detail  the  personal  mistakes  and  defi 
ciencies  of  this  long  era,  I  might  lose  the  sympathy  which  may 
have  followed  me  thus  far. 

I  have  purposely  confined  myself  to  my  earlier  recollections, 


CAROLINE  OILMAN.  57 

believing  that  my  writings  will  be  the  best  exponents  of  my  views 
and  experience.  It  would  be  wrong,  however,  for  me  not  to  allude, 
in  passing,  to  one  subject  which  has  had  a  potent  influence  on  my 
life,  I  refer  to  mesmerism  or  magnetic  psychology.  This  seemingly 
mysterious  agency,  has  given  me  relief  when  other  human  aid  was 
hopeless,  and  I  believe  it  is  destined,  when  calmly  investigated,  to 
be,  under  Providence,  a  great  remedial  agent  for  mankind. 

My  Heavenly  Father  has  called  me  to  varied  trials  of  joy  and 
sorrow.  I  trust  they  have  all  drawn  me  nearer  to  him.  I  have 
resided  in  Charleston  thirty-one  years,  and  shall  probably  make  my 
final  resting-place  in  the  beautiful  cemetery  adjoining  my  husband's 
church — the  church  of  my  faith  and  my  love. 


SARAH  HALL. 


MRS.  SARAH  HALL  was  born  at  Philadelphia,  on  the  30th  of  October, 
1761.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  John  Ewing,  D.  D.,  who  was, 
for  many  years,  Provost  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  and  Pastor 
of  the  First  Presbyterian  Church  at  Philadelphia. 

At  the  close  of  the  revolutionary  war,  in  the  year  1782,  she  was  mar 
ried  to  Mr.  John  Hall,  the  son  of  a  wealthy  planter  in  Maryland,  to  which 
State  they  removed.  Here  she  spent  about  eight  years,  upon  a  beautiful 
farm  on  the  shores  of  the  Susquehanna. 

After  their  residence  in  Maryland,  they  settled  in  Philadelphia,  where 
Mr.  Hall  filled  successively  the  offices  of  Secretary  of  the  Land  Office,  and 
Marshal  of  the  United  States,  for  the  district  of  Pennsylvania. 

Endowed  by  nature  with  an  ardent  and  lively  imagination,  she  early 
imbibed  a  keen  relish  for  the  beauties  of  polite  literature,  and  devoted 
much  time  to  such  pursuits.  "When  the  Port  Folio  was  established  by  Mr. 
Dennie  in  1800,  she  was  one  of  the  literary  circle  with  which  he  associated, 
and  to  whose  pens  that  work  was  indebted  for  its  celebrity.  Elegant  litera 
ture  was  at  that  time  more  successfully  cultivated  in  Philadelphia  than  in 
any  other  part  of  the  Union.  To  write  for  the  Port  Folio  was  considered 
no  small  honour  j  and  to  be  among  the  favoured  correspondents  of  Mr. 
Dennie  was  a  distinction  of  some  value,  where  the  competitors  were  so 
numerous,  and  so  highly  gifted;  for  among  the  writers  for  that  work 
were  a  number  of  gentlemen,  who  have  since  filled  the  most  exalted 
stations  in  the  Federal  government,  both  in  the  cabinet  and  on  the 
bench,  and  who  have,  in  various  ways,  reaped  the  highest  rewards  of 
patriotism  and  genius.  Some  of  the  most  sprightly  essays  and  pointed 
criticisms  which  appeared  in  this  paper,  at  the  time  of  its  greatest  popu 
larity,  were  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Hall. 

When  the  Port  Folio  came  under  the  direction  of  her  son,  the  late 

(58) 


SARAH   HALL.  59 

John  E.  Hall,  who  was  its  editor  for  more  than  ten  years,  she  con 
tinually  aided  him  in  his  labours ;  and  her  contributions  may  readily  be 
distinguished,  as  well  by  their  vivacity  as  the  classic  purity  of  their 
diction.  She  survived  but  a  few  months  that  son,  her  eldest,  whom  she 
had  encouraged  and  assisted  in  his  various  literary  labours  for  about 
twenty  years. 

She  studied  the  Scriptures  with  diligence,  and  with  prayer — with  all 
the  humility  of  Christian  zeal,  and  with  all  the  scholar's  thirst  for  acqui 
sition.  By  such  means,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  best  libraries  of  Phila 
delphia,  Mrs.  Hall  became  as  eminent  for  scholarship  in  this  department 
of  learning,  as  she  was  for  wit,  vivacity,  and  genius.  Her  "  Conversa 
tions  on  the  Bible/'  a  practical  and  useful  book,  which  is  now  extensively 
known,  affords  ample  testimony  that  her  memory  is  entitled  to  this  praise. 
This  work  is  written  with  that  ease  and  simplicity  which  belongs  to  true 
genius ;  and  contains  a  fund  of  information  which  could  only  have  been 
collected  by  diligent  research  and  mature  thought.  While  engaged  in 
this  undertaking,  she  began  the  study  of  the  Hebrew  language,  to  enable 
herself  to  make  the  necessary  critical  researches,  and  is  supposed  to  have 
made  a  considerable  proficiency  in  the  attainment  of  that  dialect.  When 
it  is  stated  that  she  commenced  the  authorship  of  this  work  after  she  had 
passed  the  age  of  fifty,  she  being  then  the  mother  of  eleven  children, 
and  that  during  her  whole  life  she  was  eminently  distinguished  for  her 
industry,  economy,  and  exact  attention  to  all  the  duties  belonging  to  her 
station,  as  the  head  of  a  numerous  family,  it  will  be  seen  that  she  was  no 
ordinary  woman. 

In  a  letter  to  a  literary  lady  in  Scotland,  written  in  1821,  Mrs.  Hall 
makes  the  following  remarks,  which  will  be  read  with  interest,  as  show 
ing  the  change  that  has  taken  place  in  the  last  thirty  years  : — 

"  Your  flattering  inquiry  about  my  '  literary  career'  may  be  answered 
in  a  word — literature  has  no  career  in  America.  It  is  like  wine,  which, 
we  are  told,  must  cross  the  ocean  to  make  it  good.  We  are  a  business- 
doing,  money-making  people.  And  as  for  us  poor  females,  the  blessed 
tree  of  liberty  has  produced  such  an  exuberant  crop  of  bad  servants,  that 
we  have  no  eye  nor  ear  for  anything  but  work.  We  are  the  most  devoted 
wives,  and  mothers,  and  housekeepers,  but  every  moment  given  to  a  book 
is  stolen.  The  first  edition  of  the  '  Conversations'  astonished  me  by  its 
rapid  sale ;  for  I  declare  to  you,  truly,  that  I  promised  myself  nothing. 
Should  the  second  do  tolerably,  I  may  perhaps  be  tempted  to  accede  to 
the  intimations  of  good-natured  people,  by  continuing  the  history  to  the 
end  of  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles.  Yet  I  found  so  much  difficulty  in  the 
performance  of  the  first  part,  having  never  written  one  hour  without  the 
interruption  of  company,  or  business,  that  I  sent  off  my  last  sheet  as 
peevishly  as  Johnson  sent  the  Finis  of  his  Dictionary  to  Miller,  almost 


60  SARAH   HALL. 

vowing  that  I  would  never  again  touch  a  pen.  In  fact  it  is,  as  your  friend 
says,  l  She  that  would  be  a  notable  housewife,  must  be  that  thing  only." 
Mrs.  Hall  died  at  Philadelphia,  on  the  8th  of  April,  1830,  aged  69.  A 
small  volume  containing  selections  from  her  miscellaneous  writings,  was 
published  in  Philadelphia,  in  1833.  This  volume  contains  also  an  inter 
esting  sketch  of  her  life,  from  which  the  present  notice  has  been  compiled. 


ON  FASHION.* 

MOST  of  you  writers  have  leaped  into  the  censor's  throne  without 
leave  or  license ;  where  you  were  no  sooner  seated,  than,  with  the 
impudence  one  might  expect  from  such  conduct,  you  have  railed, 
with  all  the  severity  of  satire  and  indecency  of  invective,  against 
our  folly,  frivolity,  forwardness,  fondness  of  dress,  and  so  forth. 
You  can't  conceive  what  a  latitude  is  assumed  by  the  witlings  of 
the  day,  from  the  encouragement  of  such  pens  as  yours.  Those 
well  dressed  young  gentlemen  who  will  lay  awake  whole  nights  in 
carving  the  fashion  of  a  new  doublet,  and  who  will  criticise  Cooper 
without  knowing  whether  Shakspeare  wrote  dramas  or  epic  poems, 
these  wiseacres,  I  say,  saunter  along  Chestnut  street,  when  the  sun 
shines,  and  amuse  themselves  with  sneers  against  our  sex :  and  in 
nothing  are  we  so  much  the  object  of  their  ridicule  as  in  our  devotion 
to  fashion,  on  whose  shrine,  according  to  these  modern  peripatetics, 
we  sacrifice  our  time,  our  understanding,  and  our  health.  We  have 
freedom  of  the  press,  and  freedom  of  religion,  and  why  should  we 
not  enjoy  a  freedom  of  fashions  ? 

What  do  these  sapient  gentlemen  wish?  Would  they  have  a 
dress  for  females  established  by  an  act  of  the  Assembly,  as  doctors 
of  medicine  have  been  created  in  Maryland  ?  "  Which  dress  afore 
said  of  the  aforegoing  figure,  colour,  materials,  fashion,  cut,  make, 
&c.,  &c.,  all  the  good  spinsters  of  Pennsylvania  shall  wear  on  all 
highdays  and  holy  days,  under  pain,  &c.,  &c."  Horrible  idea ! — 
What !  tie  us  down  to  the  dull  routine  of  the  same  looks,  the  same 
bonnets,  the  same  cloaks  ? — take  from  us  that  charming  diversity, 
that  delightful  variety,  which  blooms  in  endless  succession  from 

*  Addressed  to  the  editor  of  the  Port  Folio. 


SARAH   HALL.  61 

week  to  week,  with  the  changes  of  the  season — make  us  tedious  to 
ourselves,  and  as  unalterable  and  unattractable  as  an  old  family 
picture — or,  what  is  equally  out  of  the  way  and  insipid,  an  old 
bachelor  ? 

But  some  of  you  talk  of  simplicity  of  nature ;  of  the  gewgaw 
display  of  artificial  charms ;  of  deforming  nature's  works  by  the 
cumbrous  and  fantastical  embellishments  of  art,  and  so  forth. 
Now,  sir,  if  you  will  pin  the  argument  to  this  point,  I  shall  have 
you  in  my  power.  Pray,  is  nature  simple,  barren,  tedious,  dull, 
uniform,  and  unadorned,  as  you  old  bachelors  would  have  us  to  be, 
so  that  we  might  resemble  your  comfortless  selves  ?  Look  at  the 
trees — are  they  all  of  the  same  colour  ?  Are  they  not  so  infinitely 
diversified  in  their  shades  and  figures,  that,  to  an  observing  eye, 
no  two  are  alike  ?  Observe  the  flowers  of  the  garden :  do  they 
exhibit  the  same  sombre  or  pale  hue  ?  Do  they  present  that  dull 
simplicity  which  you  recommend  to  us,  whom  your  gravest  philoso 
phers  allow  to  be  the  handsomest  beings  in  creation  ?  Do  you 
prefer  the  dull  uniformity  of  a  trench  of  upright  celery  to  the 
variegated  bed  of  tulips  ?  What  would  you  say  of  a  project  to 
reform  nature  by  robbing  the  rose  of  its  blushing  red,  the  lily  of 
its  silver  lustre,  the  tulip  of  its  gorgeous  streaks,  the  violet  of  its 
regal  purple,  and  allowing  the  vale  to  be  no  longer  embroidered 
with  their  various  beauties  ?  or,  of  blotting  from  the  clouds  their 
golden  streaks  and  dazzling  silver,  and  banishing  the  gay  rainbow 
from  the  heavens,  because  they  are  not  of  a  uniform  colour,  but 
for  ever  present  more  varieties  and  combinations  of  beauties  than 
our  imagination  can  paint  ?  And  shall  not  we,  who,  at  least,  pre 
tended  to  have  the  use  of  reason,  imitate  nature  ?  Nature  has 
given  for  our  use  the  varied  dyes  of  the  mineral  and  vegetable 
world,  which  enables  us  almost  to  vie  with  her  own  splendid  gild 
ing.  Nature  made  us  to  be  various,  changeable,  inconstant,  many- 
coloured,  whimsical,  fickle,  and  fond  of  show,  if  you  please,  and  we 
follow  nature  with  the  greatest  fidelity  when,  like  her,  we  use  her 
beauties  to  delight  the  eye,  gratify  the  taste,  and  employ  the  mind 
in  the  harmonious  varieties  of  colour  and  figure  to  which  fashion 
resorts,  and  to  which  we  devote  so  much  time  and  thought. 


62  SARAH   HALL. 

Attend  to  these  hints,  and  if  you  properly  digest  them,  I  have 
no  doubt  so  sensible  a  head  as  you  possess  must  nod  assent  to  my 
doctrine,  that  to  study  fashion  and  be  in  the  fashion  is  the  most 
delightful  and  harmless  employment  upon  earth,  and  the  most  con 
formable  to  our  nature.  But  if  you  should  be  so  perverse  as  to 
think  erroneously  on  this  subject,  I  advise  you  to  keep  your  obser 
vations  to  yourselves,  or  to  have  your  heads  well  wigged  the  next 
time  you  come  amongst  us. 


\ 


MARIA    J.   McINTOSH.  65 

were  received  with  constantly  increasing  favour,  as  the  series  proceeded, 
and,  after  its  completion,  were  republished  in  England  with  equal  suc 
cess.  They  are  simple  tales  of  American  life,  told  in  graceful  and  easy 
language,  and  conveying  a  moral  of  beauty  and  truthfulness  that  wins 
love  at  once  for  the  fictitious  character  and  the  earnest  writer.  And 
many  a  girl,  as  she  read  of  the  charities  of  Harriet  Armand,  of  Florence 
Arnott,  and  O'Donnel's  cabin,  and  the  nameless  Aunt  Kitty,  who  wove  a 
moral  with  every  pleasure,  a  lesson  with  every  pain,  and  yet  so  secretly 
that  the  moral  could  never  be  discerned  until  the  tale  was  finished,  has 
laid  down  the  book  and  wondered  involuntarily  who  Aunt  Kitty  was. 

In  the  year  1844,  she  published  "  Conquest  and  Self-Conquest."  This 
work  is  a  fiction  of  a  more  ambitious  character  than  any  of  the  pre 
ceding.  The  hero  of  the  tale  is  a  midshipman.  One  portion  of  the  plot  is 
laid  in  the  city  of  Washington,  another  at  sea.  It  is  then  changed  to 
New  Orleans,  and  again  to  the  piratical  island  of  Barrataria,  on  the 
Mexican  coast.  Frederick  Stanley,  the  hero  of  the  story,  is  made  to  feel 
that  constant  self-restraint  will  win  self-command,  and  that  self-command 
will  rule  his  own  happiness  and  the  minds  of  others. 

In  the  same  year  appeared  another  work,  entitled  "Woman  an 
Enigma."  It  is  an  attempt  to  delineate,  not  moral  principles  that  are 
well  defined — not  religious  duties,  that  are  more  easily  depicted, — but  the 
ideal,  impalpable,  varied  substance  of  woman's  love.  This  seems  to  be  a 
natural  ground  for  a  woman  to  walk  upon,  when  she  has  passed  the  days 
of  girlhood,  and  arrived  at  such  a  distance  from  the  scenes  of  passion  as 
to  look  back  with  a  calm  eye  on  the  rush  of  early  thoughts. 

The  first  scene  in  the  book  opens  in  a  convent  in  France,  where  young 
Louise  waits  upon  a  dying  friend,  and  the  friend  leaves  her  ward  as  an 
affianced  bride  to  her  brother  the  Marquis  de  Montrevel. 

The  vow  is  duly  made  between  the  noble  courtier  and  the  trusting  girl. 
Louise  is  then  taken  to  Paris  by  her  parents  and  introduced  to  fashionable 
life,  with  its  gayeties  and  seductions,  while  the  Marquis  is  absent  on  his 
estate.  The  new  world  of  pleasure  has  no  effect  on  the  novice,  save  so  far 
as  it  stimulates  her  to  excel,  that  she  may  the  more  be  worthy  of  her  hus 
band's  love.  She  mingles  in  the  dance  to  acquire  grace,  in  the  soiree  to 
learn  the  styles  of  fashionable  life,  and  all  for  the  sole  purpose  of  being 
the  better  fitted  to  be  the  companion  and  wife  of  the  high-born  noble. 
But  the  absent  lover  hears  of  the  brilliant  life  of  his  so  lately  timid  girl, 
and,  ignorant  of  the  mighty  power  that  impels  her  to  the  exertion,  scorns 
the  supposed  fickleness  that  will  give  to  the  many  that  regard  which  he 
had  hoped  to  have  won  exclusively  for  himself. 

Then  follows  the  portion  of  the  work  which  most  perfectly  pictures  the 
author's  ideas  of  womanly  love.  The  earnest  toil  of  the  poor  girl  for  the 
pittance  of  a  smile  that  is  rewarded  by  jealousy  with  a  sneer;  the  pas- 
9 


66  MARIA    J.    McINTOSH. 

sionate  pride  of  the  wounded  woman ;  the  stern  sorrow  of  the  man ;  and 
the  final  separation,  are  all  true  to  the  instincts  of  that  master  feeling. 

In  1845  appeared  "  Praise  and  Principle/'  a  fiction  of  the  same  size  as 
the  others  just  named. 

The  hero  of  the  story,  Frank  Derwent,  is  an  American  boy,  and  is 
introduced  to  the  reader  while  at  school.  After  graduating  at  college  he 
studies  law,  and  at  last  by  energy  and  a  steadfast  adherence  to  truth  and 
principle,  attains  a  high  position  as  a  lawyer,  and  wins  the  hand  of  a  fair 
client.  The  foil  to  this  character  is  Charles  Ellersby,  a  school  companion 
of  Frank,  and  a  competitor  in  the  world  for  the  praise  that  Frank  discards 
for  the  love  of  the  dearer  right.  Frank  wins  an  honourable  name  and  a 
happy  home,  while  Charles  receives,  as  a  bitter  punishment,  that  curse  of 
manhood,  a  fashionable  wife, — and  in  a  year  is  ruined. 

The  whole  work  illustrates  the  character  of  the  author,  and  her  constant 
endeavour  to  write  not  so  much  for  the  entertaining  powers  of  the  tale, 
which  is  for  a  day,  but  for  the  inner  life  of  the  story,  that  is  for  all  time. 

"  The  Cousins,  a  Tale  for  Children,"  appeared  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
same  year.  This  is  a  small  volume,  originally  written  for  the  series  of 
Aunt  Kitty's  Tales,  and  is  the  last  work  she  has  published  anonymously. 

In  1847  was  published  "  Two  Lives,  or  To  Seem  and  To  Be,"  and  with 
it  the  name  of  the  author,  who  had  heretofore  been  unknown.  The  suc 
cess  that  it  won  may  be  estimated  by  the  fact  that  it  reached  a  seventh 
edition  in  less  than  four  years  from  its  publication. 

In  1848  appeared  "  Charms  and  Counter  Charms,"  a  work  of  greater 
size  and  power,  and  on  the  most  complex  plan  of  any  yet  written  by  our 
author,  and  received  with  so  great  favour  that  it  is  already  in  its  sixth 
edition. 

Miss  Mclntosh  here  treats  of  a  subject  that  woman  seldom  attempts, 
and  the  bearing  of  the  tale  is  mainly  on  this  one  point;  namely,  the  neces 
sity  of  the  marriage  rite  not  only  for  the  morality  of  the  world,  but  for 
the  morality,  happiness,  fidelity,  and  religion  of  any  individual  couple. 

Euston  Hastings,  the  hero  of  the  story,  a  man  somewhat  on  the 
Byronic  order,  whom  having  seen  you  turn  to  watch,  scarcely  knowing 
why,  wins  and  marries  a  young  girl,  Evelyn  Beresford.  But  before  the 
marriage,  and  after  the  engagement,  he  declares  to  the  lady  of  his  choice 
his  so-called  liberal  views  on  the  subject  of  religion. 

Not  long  after,  Evelyn  asks  his  views  in  regard  to  marriage.  The  man 
of  the  world  replies — 

"  I  answer  you  with  confidence,  because  I  know  such  is  your  affinity 
with  purity  and  truth  that  you  will  discover  them  though  they  appear  in 
forms  which  conventionalism  condemns ;  and  I  tell  you,  without  disguise, 
that  I  think  marriage  unnecessary  to  secure  fidelity  where  there  is  love, 
and  insufficient  where  there  is  not." 

The  revelation  of  these  foreign  views  does  not,  however,  alienate  the 


MARIA    J.    McINTOSH.  67 

woman's  heart,  and  Evelyn  is  soon  bound  to  her  husband  by  the  same 
holy  tie  that  he  considers  a  conventional  form. 

But  Evelyn  loves  with  an  engrossing  passion.  With  a  strength  of  feel 
ing  that  demands  a  constant  return,  and  forgetting  the  hundred  busy 
things  that  are  calling  a  man's  attention,  she  desires  the  whole  time  and 
the  whole  regard  of  her  husband.  This  selfish,  exclusive  love,  that 
engrosses  the  object  when  it  submits,  and  is  thrown  into  tears  when  it 
does  not,  produces  the  natural  consequence  on  a  man  to  whom  perfect 
liberty  is  an  accustomed  right.  He  seeks  for  the  regard  from  other  per 
sons,  that  he  cannot  receive  from  his  wife  without  a  corresponding  degree 
of  personal  restraint.  This  course  produces  another  result  on  Evelyn. 
She  feels  wounded  and  becomes  reproachful.  Instead  of  winning  him  by 
her  charms,  she  calls  him  to  her  society  by  her  rights,  until  at  last 
Hastings  leaves  secretly  for  Europe,  and  is  supposed  to  have  fled  with 
another  lady. 

The  blow  falls  fearfully  heavy  on  one  who  had  centred  all  her  hopes  on 
the  dearly  loved  husband.  Everything  is  forgotten  but  her  mighty  love, 
and  she  follows  him  abroad.  A  valet  accompanying  leads  her  to  Rome, 
and  she  meets  her  husband.  He  is  struck  by  her  devotion  and  the  wrongs 
he  has  inflicted.  He  provides  her  a  house  and  every  attention,  and  they 
reside  together  happy  in  the  love  which  is  at  last  acknowledged  above 
every  consideration.  But  it  is  on  this  express  agreement,  that  Evelyn  is 
not  to  be  known  as  his  wife,  and  that  they  are  free  to  part  whenever  either 
of  them  may  choose. 

Hastings  has  the  liberty  that  he  so  dearly  prizes,  and  Evelyn  the  lover 
that  she  regards  more  than  all  the  world  besides. 

It  is  in  this  curious  relation  that  the  power  of  the  writer  is  shown.  The 
most  ultra  case  is  taken  upon  which  to  build  the  argument  for  the  holiness 
of  the  marriage  vow.  A  couple  are  duly  married,  and  the  marriage  is 
made  public  to  all  the  world.  They  live  together  for  a  time  as  man  and 
wife.  They  are  then  separated,  and  again  come  together,  not  on  the 
strength  of  the  marriage  rite,  but  only  on  their  mutual  love. 

But  does  this  new  connexion  produce  the  happiness  to  Evelyn  that  she 
desired?  On  the  contrary,  there  is  a  sense  of  wrong  in  every  pleasure. 
She  looks  at  her  own  servants  with  shame ;  and  between  her  and  every 
flower  she  touches,  every  kiss  she  receives,  there  seems  springing  up  a 
consciousness  of  guilt. 

At  length  Hastings  is  taken  ill,  and  lies  unconscious  and  near  to  death. 
Evelyn  watches  by  his  side  with  tearful  fidelity,  and  in  agony  unutterable 
attends  him  through  the  dark  valley,  and  at  length  sees  him  recovering 
with  feelings  of  joy  and  childlike  happiness 

But  during  the  course  of  this  weary  illness  she  is  made  to  see  the  right 
way,  even  amid  the  darkness  by  which  she  had  been  surrounded ;  and, 
when  Euston  has  entirely  recovered  his  health,  the  young  wife  (though 


68  MARIA    J.    McINTOSH. 

not  bearing  the  name)  flees  from  the  land  of  beauty  and  the  arms  of  her 
lover,  in  an  agony  of  grief,  leaving  behind  her  a  letter  explaining  her 
change  of  views  and  the  cause  of  her  departure. 

At  last,  in  the  heart  of  the  sensualist,  the  crust  of  worldliness  is  broken 
up,  and  Euston  Hastings,  roused  from  the  guilty  selfishness  of  his  life, 
leaves  Rome  to  seek  the  wife  who  has  become  his  all  in  the  world.  He 
finds  her  in  Paris,  and  they  are  again  united,  not  by  any  wavering  passion, 
but  by  holy  love  and  marriage,  which  gains  a  higher  beauty  from  the 
bright  faith  and  exquisite  description  of  its  able  defender. 

This  work,  though  a  high-wrought  tale  of  fiction,  is  really  an  exposition 
of  a  theory,  and  the  reader  frequently  finds  himself  laying  aside  the  book 
to  think,  Is  that  theory  really  so  ?  and  finds  that,  after  the  work  is  read, 
there  is  within  the  fabric  of  the  tale,  an  inner  temple  of  right  and  wrong; 
where  are  engraven  principles  that  are  pervading  his  memory  equally,  if 
not  more  constantly  than  the  plot  of  the  fiction. 

"  Woman  in  America ;  Her  Work,  and  Her  Reward,"  the  next  succeed 
ing  work  in  the  order  of  publication,  was  issued  in  1850. 

In  this  work,  the  author,  apparently  tired  of  teaching  only  through  the 
medium  of  fiction,  addresses  herself  to  reasoning  and  argument.  We  read 
here  the  ideas  of  a  religious  woman,  well  acquainted  with  all  grades  of 
American  society,  in  an  earnest  tone  denouncing  the  servility  of  her  sex 
to  the  rules  of  fashion  and  opinion,  modelled  not  by  the  good  and  virtuous, 
but  by  the  dissolute  societies  of  Europe,  and  forms  and  customs  made  not 
after  the  model  of  a  naturally  honest,  or  even  commonly  virtuous  ideal, 
but  copied  after  the  ever-changing,  never  true,  leader  of  some  dissolute  or 
fastidious  circle — it  may  be,  of  Paris,  it  may  be  of  Saratoga.  The  only 
rule  that  seems  never  to  have  changed  among  this  class  of  people  until  it 
is  embodied  in  their  social  confession  of  faith,  is  "  Money  makes  the  man." 
Mahogany  doors  are  closed  to  the  gentleman-labourer,  that  are  flung  wide 
open  to  him  when  he  becomes  a  millionaire.  White  arms  are  outstretched 
to  the  banker,  that  are  folded  in  scorn  to  his  approach  when  a  bankrupt. 

The  last  work  of  Miss  Mclntosh  that  has  yet  appeared  is  "  Evenings  at 
Donaldson  Manor,"  which  was  intended  as  a  Christmas  Guest,  for  the 
year  1850.  It  was  a  completion  of  tales  that  had  appeared  at  different 
times  in  periodicals. 

This  list  of  works  includes  all  the  writings  of  Miss  Mclntosh,  with  the 
exception  of  numerous  fugitive  tales,  published  at  various  times  in  maga 
zines. 

It  will  be  obvious  to  every  one  familiar  with  Miss  Mclntosh's  writings, 
that  she  is  a  delineator  entirely  of  mental  life.  The  physical  in  man,  in 
animals,  and  nature,  is  never  used,  except  so  far  as  is  necessary  to  bring 
forward  the  mind  and  its  virtues,  desires,  and  principles.  She  has  appa 
rently  excluded  from  her  attention  everything  that  did  not  absolutely 
belong  to  the  moral  life. 


MARIA  J.   McINTOSH.  69 

Evelyn  and  Euston  live  for  a  summer  on  the  Tiber,  but  not  the  faintest 
tinge  of  the  golden  light,  or  the  lowest  breath  of  Roman  air  enters  within 
their  villa. 

Hubert  Falconer  builds  a  frontier  cottage,  but  he  never  listens  to  the 
sighing  pines,  or  treads  the  forest  aisles. 

Mind,  with  its  wayward  creeds,  can  alone  be  seen  in  the  Imperial  City. 
Feelings  right  and  wrong,  and  promises  faithfully  performed  are  more  to 
Hubert  than  earth,  air,  and  water,  and  the  glorious  gifts  of  Nature. 

Miss  Mclntosh  still  further  restricts  herself  in  the  characters  of  her 
story,  and  selects  only  the  common  ones  of  practical  life,  as  though  anx 
ious  for  the  principle  alone,  and  the  fiction  that  would  draw  the  reader  off 
from  the  moral  is  discarded.  In  her  quiet  pages  there  never  occurs  the 
extreme  either  of  character  or  passion.  It  is  only  the  system  of  con 
science — the  rule  of  right — the  law  of  G-od  that  is  portrayed,  and  the 
more  marked  characters,  or  the  more  easily  delineated  beauties  and  feel 
ings  of  life  and  nature  are  left  with  a  rigid  indifference  to  those  whose 
design  is  to  please  more  than  to  instruct. 

Yet  the  reader,  when  the  book  is  closed,  and  he  has  gone  to  his  daily 
labour,  or  mingles  in  social  life,  finds  lingering  in  his  brain,  and  warming 
in  his  heart,  a  true  principle  of  honour  and  love  that  is  constantly  con 
trasting  itself  with  the  hollow  forms  by  which  he  is  surrounded,  and  if  he 
fails  to  bear  himself  up  to  that  high  ideal  of  principle  which  he  feels  to 
be  true,  he  still  walks  a  little  nearer  to  his  conscience  and  his  God,  and 
long  after  the  volume  is  returned  to  the  shelf  and  forgotten,  a  kindly 
benediction  is  given  to  the  noble  influence  it  incited. 

And  thus  will  it  be  with  the  author  that  lives  in  the  hearts  and  not  in 
the  fancy  of  her  readers.  And  long  after  she  is  returned  to  the  great 
library  of  the  unforgotten  dead,  a  blessing  wide  as  her  language,  and  fer 
vent  as  devotion,  will  descend  on  the  delineator  of  those  lofty  principles 
that  showed  the  nobleness  of  simplicity,  and  the  holiness  of  truth. 

The  extract  which  follows  is  from  "  Woman  in  America." 


TWO  PORTRAITS. 

PERMIT  us,  in  illustration  of  our  subject,  to  place  before  you  a 
sketch  of  an  American  woman  of  fashion  as  she  is  and  as  she  might 
be — as  she  must  be  to  accomplish  the  task  we  would  appoint  her. 
Examine  with  a  careful  eye  "the  counterfeit  presentment"  of  these 
two  widely  differing  characters,  and  choose  the  model  on  which  you 
will  form  yourselves.  And  first,  by  a  few  strokes  of  this  magic 
wand — the  pen — we  will  conjure  within  the  charmed  circle  of  your 
vision,  the  woman  of  fashion  as  she  is. 


70  MARIA  J.    McINTOSH. 

FLIRTILLA, — for  so  noted  a  character  must  not  want  a  name, — may 
well  be  pronounced  a  favourite  of  nature  and  of  fortune.  To  the 
first  she  owed  a  pleasing  person  and  a  mind  which  offered  no  unapt 
soil  for  cultivation ;  by  favour  of  the  last,  she  was  born  the  heiress 
to  wealth  and  to  those  advantages  which  wealth  unquestionably 
confers.  Her  childhood  was  carefully  sequestered  from  all  vulgar 
influences,  and  she  was  early  taught,  that  to  be  a  little  lady  was 
her  highest  possible  attainment.  At  six  years  old  she  astonished 
the  elite  assembled  in  her  father's  halls,  and  even  dazzled  the  larger 
assemblages  of  Saratoga  by  her  grace  in  dancing  and  by  the  ease 
with  which  she  conversed  in  French,  which,  as  it  was  the  language 
of  her  nursery  attendants,  had  been  a  second  mother-tongue  to  her. 
At  the  fashionable  boarding-school,  at  which  her  education  was, 
in  common  parlance,  completed,  she  distanced  all  competitors  for 
the  prizes  in  modern  languages,  dancing,  and  music ;  and  acquired 
so  much  acquaintance  with  geography  and  history  as  would  secure 
her  from  mistaking  Prussia  for  Persia,  or  imagining  that  Lord 
Wellington  had  conquered  Julius  Caesar — in  other  words,  so  much 
knowledge  of  them  as  would  guard  her  from  betraying  her  igno 
rance.  To  these  acquirements  she  added  a  slight  smattering 
of  various  natural  sciences.  All  these  accomplishments  had  nearly 
been  lost  to  the  world,  by  her  forming  an  attachment  for  one  of 
fine  qualities,  personal  and  mental,  who  was  entirely  destitute  of 
fortune.  From  the  fatal  mistake  of  yielding  to  such  an  attachment 
she  was  preserved  by  a  judicious  mother,  who  placed  before  her  in 
vivid  contrast  the  commanding  position  in  which  she  would  be 
placed  as  the  wife  of  Mr.  A — ,  with  his  houses  and  lands,  his  bank 
stock  and  magnificent  equipage  ;  and  the  mediocre  station  she  would 
occupy  as  Mrs.  B — ,  a  station  to  which  one  of  her  aspiring  mind 
could  not  readily  succumb,  even  though  she  found  herself  there  in 
company  with  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  agreeable  of  men. 
Relinquishing  with  a  sigh  the  gratification  of  the  last  sentiment 
that  bound  her  to  nature  and  to  rational  life,  she  magnanimously 
sacrificed  her  inclinations  to  her  sense  of  duty,  and  became  Mrs. 
A — .  From  this  time  her  course  has  been  undisturbed  by  one 
faltering  feeling,  one  wavering  thought.  She  has  visited  London 


MARIA  J.    McINTOSH.  71 

and  Paris,  only  that  she  might  assure  herself  that  her  house  pos 
sessed  all  which  was  considered  essential  to  a  genteel  establishment 
in  the  first,  and  that  her  toilette  was  the  most  recherche  that  could 
be  obtained  in  the  last.  She  laughs  at  the  very  idea  of  wearing 
anything  made  in  America,  and  is  exceedingly  merry  over  the  por 
traitures  of  Yankee  character  and  Yankee  life  occasionally  to  be 
met  in  the  pages  of  foreign  tourists,  or  to  be  seen  personated  in 
foreign  theatres.  She  complains  much  of  the  promiscuous  charac 
ter  of  American  society,  dances  in  no  set  but  her  own,  and,  in 
order  to  secure  her  exclusiveness  from  contact  with  the  common 
herd,  moves  about  from  one  point  of  fashionable  life  to  another, 
attended  by  the  same  satellites,  to  whom  she  is  the  great  centre  of 
attraction.  Her  manners,  like  her  dresses,  are  imported  from 
Paris.  She  talks  and  laughs  very  loudly  at  all  public  places,  lec 
tures,  concerts,  and  the  like ;  and  has  sometimes,  even  in  the  house 
of  God,  expressed  audibly  her  assent  with  or  dissent  from  the 
preacher,  that  she  may  prove  herself  entirely  free  from  that  shock 
ingly  American  mauvaise  honte,  which  she  supposes  to  be  all  that 
keeps  other  women  silent.  Any  gentleman  desiring  admission  to 
her  circle  must  produce  authentic  credentials  that  he  has  been 
abroad,  must  wear  his  mustaches  after  the  latest  Parisian  cut,  must 
interlard  his  bad  English  with  worse  French,  and  must  be  familiar 
with  the  names  and  histories  of  the  latest  ballet-dancers  and  opera- 
singers  who  have  created  a  fever  of  excitement  abroad.  To  foreign 
ers  she  is  particularly  gracious,  and  nothing  throws  her  into  such  a 
fervour  of  activity  as  the  arrival  in  the  country  of  an  English  Lord, 
a  German  Baron,  or  a  French  or  Italian  Count.  To  draw  such  a 
character  within  her  circle  she  thinks  no  effort  too  great,  no  sacri 
fice  of  feeling  too  humiliating. 

It  may  be  objected  that  all  our  descriptions  of  the  fashionable 
woman  as  she  is,  relates  to  externals ;  that  of  the  essential  charac 
ter,  the  inner  life,  we  have,  in  truth,  said  nothing.  But  what  can 
we  do  ?  So  far  as  we  have  yet  been  able  to  discover,  this  class  is 
destitute  of  any  inner  life.  Those  who  compose  it  live  for  the 
world  and  in  the  world.  Home  is  with  them  only  the  place  in 
which  they  receive  visits.  "VVe  acknowledge  that  few  in  our  country 


72  MARIA  J.    McINTOSH. 

have  yet  attained  to  so  perfect  a  development  of  fashionable  cha 
racter  as  we  have  here  described;  but  to  some  it  is  already  an 
attainment ;  to  many — we  fear  to  most,  young  women  of  what  are 
called  the  higher  classes  in  our  large  cities — it  is  an  aim. 

Nobler  spirits  there  are,  indeed,  among  us,  of  every  age  and  every 
class,  and  from  these  we  must  choose  our  example  of  a  woman  of 
fashion  as  she  should  be.  On  her,  too,  we  will  bestow  a  name — 
a  name  associated  with  all  gentle  and  benignant  influences — the 
name  of  her  who  in  her  shaded  retreats  received  of  old  the  ruler  of 
earth's  proudest  empire,  that  she  might  "breathe  off  with  the  holy 
air"  of  her  pure  affection,  "that  dust  o'  the  heart"  caught  from 
contact  with  coarser  spirits.  So  have  we  dreamed  of  EGERIA,  and 
Egeria  shall  be  the  name  of  our  heroine.  Heroine  indeed,  for  heroic 
must  be  her  life.  With  eyes  uplifted  to  a  protecting  Heaven,  she 
must  walk  the  narrow  path  of  right, — a  precipice  on  either  hand, — 
never  submitting,  in  her  lowliness  of  soul,  to  the  encroachments  of 
the  selfish,  and  eager,  and  clamorous  crowd, — never  bowing  her 
own  native  nobility  to  the  dictation  of  those  whom  the  world  styles 
great.  "  Resisting  the  proud,  but  giving  grace  unto  the  humble," 
if  we  may  without  irreverence  appropriate  to  a  mortal,  words 
descriptive  of  Him  whose  unapproachable  and  glorious  holiness  we 
are  exhorted  to  imitate. 

In  society,  Egeria  is  more  desirous  to  please  than  to  shine.  Her 
associates  are  selected  mainly  for  their  personal  qualities,  and  if 
she  is  peculiarly  attentive  and  deferential  to  any  class,  it  is  to 
those  unfortunates  whom  poverty,  the  accidents  of  birth,  or  the 
false  arrangements  of  society,  have  divorced  from  a  sphere  for 
which  their  refinement  of  taste  and  manner  and  their  intellectual 
cultivation  had  fitted  them.  Admission  to  her  society  is  sought  as 
a  distinction,  because  it  is  known  that  it  must  be  purchased  by 
something  more  than  a  graceful  address,  a  well-curled  mustache, 
or  the  reputation  of  a  travelled  man.  At  her  entertainments,  you 
will  often  meet  some  whom  you  will  meet  nowhere  else ;  some  promis 
ing  young  artist,  yet  unknown  to  fame, — some  who,  once  standing 
in  the  sunshine  of  fortune,  were  well  known  to  many  whose  vision 
is  too  imperfect  for  the  recognition  of  features  over  which  adversity 


MARIA  J.    McINTOSH.  73 

has  thrown  its  shadow.  The  influence  of  Egeria  is  felt  through  the 
whole  circle  of  her  acquaintance; — she  encourages  the  young  to 
high  aims  and  persevering  efforts, — she  brightens  the  fading  light 
of  the  aged,  but  above  all  is  she  a  blessing  and  a  glory  within  her 
own  home.  Her  husband  cannot  look  on  her — to  borrow  Longfel 
low's  beautiful  thought — without  "reading  in  the  serene  expression 
of  her  face,  the  Divine  beatitude,  *  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart.'  " 
Her  children  revere  her  as  the  earthly  type  of  perfect  love.  They 
learn,  even  more  from  her  example  than  her  precept,  that  they  are 
to  live  not  to  themselves,  but  to  their  fellow-creatures,  and  to  God 
in  them.  She  has  so  cultivated  their  taste  for  all  which  is  beautiful 
and  noble,  that  they  cannot  but  desire  to  conform  themselves  to 
such  models.  She  has  taught  them  to  love  their  country  and 
devote  themselves  to  its  advancement — not  because  it  excels  all 
others,  but  because  it  is  that  to  which  God  in  his  providence  united 
them,  and  whose  advancement  and  true  interest  they  are  bound  to 
seek  by  all  just  and  Christian  methods.  In  a  word,  she  has  never 
forgotten  that  they  are  immortal  and  responsible  beings,  and  this 
thought  has  reappeared  in  every  impression  she  has  stamped  upon 
their  minds. 

But  it  is  her  conduct  towards  those  in  a  social  position  inferior 
to  her  own,  which  individualizes  most  strongly  the  character  of 
Egeria.  Kemembering  that  there  are  none  who  may  not,  under 
our  free  institutions,  attain  to  positions  of  influence  and  responsi 
bility,  she  endeavours,  in  all  her  intercourse  with  them,  to  awaken 
their  self-respect  and  desire  for  improvement,  and  she  is  ever  ready 
to  aid  them  in  the  attainment  of  that  desire,  and  thus  to  fit  them 
for  the  performance  of  those  duties  that  may  devolve  on  them. 

"Are  you  not  afraid  that  Bridget  will  leave  you,  if,  by  your 
lessons,  you  fit  her  for  some  higher  position?"  asked  a  lady,  on 
finding  her  teaching  embroidery  to  a  servant  who  had  shown  much 
aptitude  for  it. 

"  If  Bridget  can  advance  her  interest  by  leaving  me,  she  shall 
have  my  cheerful  consent  to  go.  God  forbid  that  I  should  stand 

in  the  way  of  good  to  any  fellow-creature — above  all,  to  one  whom, 
10 


74  MARIA  J.    McINTOSH. 

by  placing  her  under  my  temporary  protection,  he  has  made  it 
especially  my  duty  to  serve,"  was  her  reply. 

In  the  general  ignorance  and  vice  of  the  population  daily  pour 
ing  into  our  country  from  foreign  lands,  Egeria  finds  new  reason 
for  activity,  in  the  moral  and  intellectual  advancement  of  all  who 
are  brought  within  her  sphere  of  influence. 

Egeria  has  been  accused  of  being  ambitious  for  her  children. 
"I  am  ambitious  for  them,"  she  replies;  "ambitious  that  they 
should  occupy  stations  that  may  be  as  a  vantage-ground  from  which 
to  act  for  the  public  good." 

Notwithstanding  this  ambition,  she  has,  to  the  astonishment  of 
many  in  her  own  circle,  consented  that  one  of  her  sons  should 
devote  himself  to  mechanical  pursuits.  She  was  at  first  pitied  for 
this,  as  a  mortification  to  which  she  must  certainly  have  been  com 
pelled,  by  her  husband's  singular  notions,  to  submit. 

"You  mistake,"  said  Egeria,  to  one  who  delicately  expressed 
this  pity  to  her ;  "  my  son's  choice  of  a  trade  had  my  hearty  con 
currence.  I  was  prepared  for  it  by  the  whole  bias  of  his  mind 
from  childhood.  He  will  excel  in  the  career  he  has  chosen,  I  have 
no  doubt ;  for  he  has  abilities  equal  to  either  of  his  brothers,  and 
he  loves  the  object  to  which  he  has  devoted  them.  As  a  lawyer  or 
physician  he  would,  probably,  have  but  added  one  to  the  number 
of  mediocre  practitioners  who  lounge  through  life  with  no  higher 
aim  than  their  own  maintenance." 

"But  then,"  it  was  objected,  "he  would  not  have  sacrificed  his 
position  in  society." 

Egeria  is  human,  and  the  sudden  flush  of  indignation  must  have 
crimsoned  the  mother's  brow  at  this ;  and  somewhat  of  scorn,  we 
doubt  not,  was  in  the  smile  that  curled  her  lip  as  she  replied,  "  My 
son  can  afford  to  lose  the  acquaintance  of  those  who  cannot  appre 
ciate  the  true  nobility  and  independence  of  spirit  which  have  made 
him  choose  a  position  offering,  as  he  believes,  the  highest  means  of 
development  for  his  own  peculiar  powers,  and  the  greatest  probabi 
lity,  therefore,  of  his  becoming  useful  to  others." 

Our  sketches  are  finished — imperfect  sketches  we  acknowledge 
them.  It  would  have  been  a  labour  of  love  to  have  rendered  the 


MARIA  J.    McINTOSH.  75 

last  complete — to  have  followed  the  steps  of  Egeria — the  Christian 
gentlewoman — through  at  least  one  day  of  her  life ;  to  have  shown 
her  embellishing  her  social  circle  by  her  graces  of  manner  and 
charms  of  conversation,  and  to  have  accompanied  her  from  the 
saloons  which  she  thus  adorned,  to  more  humble  abodes.  In  these 
abodes  she  was  ever  a  welcome  as  well  as  an  honoured  guest,  for 
she  bore  thither  a  respectful  consideration  for  their  inmates,  which 
is  a  rarer  and  more  coveted  gift  to  the  poor  than  any  wealth  can 
purchase.  Having  done  this,  we  would  have  liked  to  glance  at  her 
in  the  tranquil  evening  of  a  life  well  spent,  and  to  contrast  her 
then  with  Flirtilla — old  beyond  the  power  of  rouge,  false  teeth,  and 
false  hair,  to  disguise — still  running  through  a  round  of  pleasures 
that  have  ceased  to  charm, — regretting  the  past,  dissatisfied  with  the 
present,  and  dreading  the  future, — alternately  courting  and  abusing 
the  world,  which  has  grown  weary  of  her. 


LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY. 


JUSTICE  has  hardly  been  done  to  Mrs.  Sigourney  as  a  prose  writer. 
She  has  been  so  long,  and  is  so  familiarly,  quoted  as  a  poet,  that  the 
public  has  in  a  measure  forgotten  that  her  indefatigable  pen  has  sent  forth 
almost  a  volume  of  prose  yearly  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century — 
that  her  prose  works  already  issued  number,  in  fact,  twenty-five  volumes, 
averaging  more  than  two  hundred  pages  each,  and  some  of  them  having 
gone  through  not  less  than  twenty  editions.  She  has  indeed  produced  no 
one  work  of  a  thrilling  or  startling  character,  wherewith  to  electrify  the 
public  mind.  Her  writings  have  been  more  like  the  dew  than  the  light 
ning.  Yet  the  dew,  it  is  well  to  remember,  is  not  only  one  of  the  most 
beneficent,  but  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  nature's  agents — far  more 
potential  in  grand  results  than  its  brilliant  rival.  When  account  shall  be 
made  of  the  various  agencies,  moral  and  intellectual,  that  have  moulded 
the  American  mind  and  heart  during  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury,  few  names  will  be  honoured  with  a  larger  credit  than  that  of  Lydia 
H.  Sigourney. 

The  maiden  name  of  this  most  excellent  woman  was  Lydia  Howard 
Huntley.  She  was  born  in  Norwich,  Connecticut,  September  1st,  1791, 
of  Ezekiel  and  Sophia  Huntley.  Being  an  only  child,  she  was  nurtured 
with  special  care  and  tenderness.  But,  besides  the  ordinary  parental 
influences,  there  was  in  her  early  history  one  circumstance  of  a  peculiar 
character,  which,  according  to  the  testimony  of  those  who  have  known  her 
best,  contributed  largely  and  most  happily  to  the  moulding  of  her  mind 
and  heart.  I  refer  to  the  remarkable  intimacy  that  existed  between  the 
gifted  and  brilliant  young  girl  and  an  aged  lady  that  lived  for  many  years 
in  the  same  house.  Madam  Jerusha  Lathrop,  the  lady  referred  to,  was 
the  relict  of  Dr.  Daniel  Lathrop,  and  daughter  of  Joseph  Talcot,  one  of 
the  Provincial  Governors  of  Connecticut. 

Madam  Lathrop  is  reported  to  have  been  gifted  by  nature  with  strong 

(76) 


LYDIA  H.   SIGOURNEY.  77 

powers  of  mind,  and  a  dignity  of  person  and  manners  that  commanded 
universal  respect.  Her  character  had  been  matured  by  intercourse  with 
men  of  powerful  intellect,  and  by  participation  in  great  and  trying  scenes. 
The  parents  of  Mrs.  Sigourney  resided  under  the  roof  of  Madam  Lathrop, 
who  had  been  bereft  of  her  husband  and  children,  and  though  the  house 
hold  was  separate,  the  latter  manifested  from  the  first  a  tender  solicitude  for 
their  infant  daughter.  As  the  mind  of  the  child  began  to  unfold  itself,  and 
to  give  promise  of  future  richness  and  depth,  the  attachment  became  mutual, 
and  in  a  few  years  an  enduring  confidence,  an  almost  inseparable  companion 
ship,  was  established  between  the  little  maiden  of  six  and  the  venerable 
woman  of  eighty. 

The  following  glimpse  into  the  chamber  of  Madam  Lathrop  is  from 
one  entirely  conversant  with  the  subject.  For  its  substantial  correctness 
as  to  fact,  we  are  permitted  to  quote  the  authority  of  Mrs.  Sigourney  her 
self.  It  is  quoted,  not  only  as  a  beautiful  episode  in  human  life,  but  also 
as  affording  a  key  to  some  of  the  most  charming  peculiarities  of  Mrs. 
Sigourne/s  writings. 

ft  Methinks  we  stand  upon  that  ancient  threshold ;  we  enter  those  low 
browed,  but  ample  rooms ;  we  mark  the  wood-fire  gleaming  upon  crimson 
moreen  curtains,  gilded  clock,  ebony-framed  mirror,  and  polished  wainscot; 
but  what  most  engages  our  attention,  is  the  venerable  occupant  and  her 
youthful  companion.  There  sits  the  lady  in  her  large  arm-chair,  and  the 
young  friend  beside  her,  with  face  upturned,  and  loving  eyes  fixed  on  that 
beaming  countenance.  We  can  imagine  that  we  hear,  in  alternate  notes, 
the  quick,  gushing  voice  of  childhood,  and  the  tremulous  tones  of  age,  as 
question  and  reply  are  freely  interchanged.  And  now  we  are  startled,  as 
the  tremulous  voice  unexpectedly  recovers  strength  and  fulness,  and 
breaks  forth  into  some  wild  or  pathetic  melody — the  ballad  or  patriotic 
stanza  of  former  days.  The  young  auditor  listens  with  rapt  delight,  and 
now,  as  the  scene  changes,  with  light  breath  and  glowing  aspect,  she  sits 
attentive  to  the  minute  and  lively  details  of  some  domestic  tale  of  truth, 
or  striking  episode  of  our  national  history — treasuring  up  the  diamond- 
dust,  to  be  fused  hereafter,  by  her  genius,  into  pellucid  gems.  As  night 
closes  round,  and  the  light  from  the  two  stately  candlesticks  glimmers 
through  the  room,  the  lady  takes  the  cushioned  seat  in  the  corner,  and 
the  young  inmate  spreads  out  upon  the  table  some  well-kept,  ancient 
book,  often  perused,  yet  never  found  wearisome  ',  and  beguiles,  with  inces 
sant  reading,  all  too  mature  for  her  years,  the  long  and  lonely  knitting 
hours  of  her  aged  friend." 

This  glimpse  into  the  parlour  of  Madam  Lathrop  is  no  fancy 
sketch.  The  evening  was  usually  closed  by  the  singing  of  devotional 
hymns,  and  the  repetition,  from  memory,  of  favourite  psalms,  or  choice 
specimens  of  serious  verse.  The  readings  were  mostly  of  devotional  works. 
Young's  Night  Thoughts  stood  highest  upon  the  list,  and  had  several 


78  LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY. 

times  been  read  aloud,  from  beginning  to  end,  by  the  young  student,  at 
an  age  in  which  most  children  can  scarcely  read,  intelligibly,  the  simplest 
verse.  Other  tomes,  and  some  heavy  and  sombrous,  were  also  made  fami 
liar  to  her  young  mind,  by  repeated  perusal ;  but  as  the  upper  shelves  of 
the  lady's  library  contained  some  volumes  of  a  lighter  character,  the  curi 
osity  of  childhood  would  render  it  pardonable,  if  now  and  then  those  shelves 
were  furtively  explored,  or  some  old  play  or  romance  withdrawn,  to  be 
read  by  stealth  in  the  solitary  chamber. 

The  chamber,  to  the  young  student,  is  a  sacred  precinct.  There,  not 
only  is  the  evening  problem  and  the  morning  recitation  faithfully  pre 
pared  for  the  school,  and  the  borrowed  book  pored  over  in  delightful 
secrecy,  with  no  intrusive  eye  to  note  the  smiles  and  tears  and  unconscious 
gesticulation,  that  respond  to  the  moving  incidents  of  the  tale — but  there, 
too,  in  silent  and  solitary  hours,  the  light-footed  muse  slips  in,  and  makes 
her  earliest  visits,  leaving  behind  those  first  faintly  dotted  notes  of  music, 
which  are  for  a  long  time  bashfully  kept  concealed  from  every  eye. 

Madam  Lathrop  watched  with  entire  complacency  the  dawning  genius 
of  her  young  favourite.  The  simple,  poetic  effusion  occasionally  brought 
from  that  solitary  chamber  and  timidly  submitted  to  her  inspection,  was 
sure  to  be  received  with  encouraging  praise,  and  to  kindle  in  the  face  of 
her  aged  friend  that  glow  of  approbation  which  was  the  highest  reward 
that  the  imagination  of  the  young  aspirant  had  then  conceived. 

The  death  of  her  venerable  benefactress,  which  took  place  when  she 
was  fourteen  years  of  age,  was  the  first  deep  sorrow  which  her  young 
heart  had  known.  It  was  a  disruption  of  very  tender  ties — the  breaking 
up  of  a  peculiar  intimacy  between  youth  and  age,  and  she  could  not  be 
easily  solaced  for  the  bereavement.  Nor  has  her  mind  ever  lost  the 
influence  of  this  early  association.  It  has  kept  with  her  through  life,  and 
runs  like  a  fine  vein  through  all  her  writings.  The  memory,  the  image, 
the  teachings  of  this  sainted  friend,  seem  to  accompany  her  like  an  invisible 
presence,  and  wherever  the  scene  may  be,  she  turns  aside  to  commune 
with  her  spirit,  or  to  cast  a  fresh  flower  upon  her  grave. 

Mrs.  Sigourney  has  been  remarkable  through  life  for  the  steadfastness 
of  her  friendships.  Besides  the  venerable  companion  already  commemo 
rated,  she  became  early  in  life  very  tenderly  attached  to  one  of  her  own 
age,  whose  history  has  become  identified  with  her  own.  This  was  Anna 
Maria  Hyde  \  a  young  lady  whose  sterling  worth  and  fine  mental  powers 
were  graced  arid  rendered  winning  by  uncommon  vivacity  and  sweetness 
of  disposition,  unaffected  modesty,  and  varied  acquirements.  The  friend 
ship  of  these  two  young  persons  for  each  other  was  intimate  and  endearing. 
They  were  companions  in  long  rural  walks,  they  sat  side  by  side  at  their 
studies,  visited  at  each  other's  dwellings,  read  together,  wrought  the  same 
needle-work  pattern,  or,  with  paint  and  pencil,  shaded  the  same  flower. 
The  neighbours  regarded  them  as  inseparable ;  the  names  of  Hyde  and 


LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY.  79 

Huntley  were  wreathed  together,  and  one  was  seldom  mentioned  without 
the  other.  Youthful  friendships  are,  however,  so  common,  and  usually  so 
transient,  that  this  would  scarcely  demand  notice,  but  for  the  strength  of 
its  foundation.  It  appeared  to  be  based  upon  a  mutual,  strong  desire  to 
do  good  to  others ;  a  fixed  purpose  to  employ  the  talents  which  God  had 
given  them,  for  the  benefit  of  the  world  upon  which  they  had  entered.  In 
pursuance  of  this  object,  they  not  only  addressed  themselves  to  the  assi 
duous  cultivation  of  their  mental  powers,  but  they  engaged  with  alacrity 
in  domestic  affairs  and  household  duties;  and  they  found  time,  also,  to 
make  garments  for  the  poor,  to  instruct  indigent  children,  to  visit  the  old 
and  infirm,  read  with  them,  and  administer  to  their  temporal  comfort,  and 
to  watch  with  the  sick  and  dying. 

Among  the  plans  for  future  usefulness  which  these  young  friends 
revolved,  none  seemed  so  feasible,  or  so  congenial  to  their  tastes,  as  that 
of  devoting  themselves  to  the  office  of  instruction.  This,  therefore,  they 
adopted  as  their  province,  their  chosen  sphere  of  action,  and  they  reso 
lutely  kept  this  object  in  view,  through  the  course  of  their  education. 
The  books  they  read,  the  studies  they  pursued,  the  accomplishments  they 
sought,  all  had  a  reference  to  this  main  design.  After  qualifying  them 
selves  to  teach  those  English  sciences  which  were  considered  necessary  to 
the  education  of  young  females,  together  with  the  elements  of  the  Latin 
tongue,  they  went  to  Hartford  and  spent  the  winter  of  1810-11  princi 
pally  in  attention  to  the  ornamental  branches,  which  were  then  in  vogue. 
Returning  from  thence,  they  entered  at  once,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  upon 
their  grand  pursuit.  A  class  of  young  ladies  in  their  native  town  gathered 
joyfully  around  them,  and  into  this  circle  they  cast  not  only  the  affluence 
of  their  well  stored  minds,  and  the  cheering  inspiration  of  youthful  zeal, 
but  all  the  strength  of  their  best  and  holiest  principles.  Animated, 
blooming,  happy,  linked  affectionately  arm  in  arm,  they  daily  came  in 
among  their  pupils,  diffusing  love  and  cheerfulness,  as  well  as  knowledge, 
and  commanding  the  most  grateful  attention  and  respect. 

The  cordial  affection  between  these  interesting  young  teachers  was  itself 
a  most  important  lesson  to  their  pupils.  One  of  the  privileged  few,  wri 
ting  after  a  lapse  of  forty  years,  thus  testifies  to  the  lasting  impression  it 
produced  upon  their  young  hearts.  "  Pleasant  it  is  to  review  those  dove- 
like  days — to  recall  the  lineaments  of  that  diligent,  earnest,  mind-expand 
ing  group ;  and  to  note  again  the  dissimilarity  so  beautifully  harmonious, 
between  those  whom  we  delighted  to  call  our  sweet  sister-teachers — the  two 
inseparables,  inimitable*.  It  was  a  matter  of  admiration  to  the  pupils, 
that  such  oneness  of  sentiment,  opinion,  and  affection,  should  co-exist  with 
such  a  diversity  in  feature,  voice,  eyes,  expression,  manner,  and  movement, 
as  the  two  friends  exhibited." 

After  a  pleasing  association  of  two  years,  the  young  teachers  parted, 
each  to  pursue  the  same  line  of  occupation  in  a  different  sphere.  But 


80  LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY. 

another  separation,  fatal  and  afflictive,  soon  took  place.  The  interesting 
and  accomplished  Miss  Hyde  was  taken  away  in  the  midst  of  usefulness 
and  promise — mowed  down  like  a  rose-tree  in  bloom,  March  26th,  1816, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-four.  Of  this  beloved  companion  of  her  youth,  Mrs. 
Sigourney  wrote  an  interesting  memoir,  soon  after  her  decease ;  and  she 
again  recurs  to  her  with  gushing  tenderness,  in  the  piece  entitled  "  Home 
of  an  early  friend/'  written  nearly  thirty  years  after  the  scene  of  bereave 
ment.  In  flowing  verse,  and  prose  almost  as  harmonious  as  music,  she 
has  twined  a  lasting  memorial  of  the  worth  of  the  departed,  and  of  that 
tender  friendship  which  was  a  marked  incident  in  her  own  young  life. 

Before  the  death  of  her  friend,  she  had  transferred  her  residence  to 
Hartford,  and  again  entered,  with  fresh  enthusiasm,  upon  the  task  of 
instruction.  In  this  path  she  was  happy  and  successful ;  it  was  regarded 
as  a  privilege  to  be  received  into  her  circle,  and  many  of  her  pupils  became 
life-long  friends,  strewing  her  subsequent  pathway  with  flowers. 

In  Hartford,  she  was  at  once  received  as  a  welcome  and  cherished 
inmate  of  the  family  of  Madam  Wadsworth,  relict  of  Col.  Jeremiah  Wads- 
worth,  whose  mother  was  a  Talcot,  and  nearly  connected  with  the  revered 
Madam  Lathrop.  The  mansion-house  in  which  Madam  Wadsworth  and 
the  aged  sisters  of  her  husband  dwelt,  stood  upon  the  spot  now  occupied 
by  the  Wadsworth  Athenaeum.  It  was  a  spacious  structure;  unadorned, 
but  deeply  interesting  in  its  historic  associations.  To  the  young  guest  it 
seemed  a  consecrated  roof,  whose  every  room  was  peopled  with  images  of 
the  past ;  nor  was  her  ear  ever  inattentive  to  those  descriptive  sketches  of 
the  heroic  age  of  our  country,  with  which  its  venerable  inhabitants  enli 
vened  the  evening  hours.  The  poem,  "On  the  Removal  of  an  Ancient 
Mansion/'  is  a  graphic  delineation  of  the  impressions  made  on  her  mind 
by  her  acquaintance  with  the  threshold  and  hearth-stone  of  this  fine  old 
house,  and  her  communion  with  its  excellent  inmates. 

Another  member  of  the  same  family,  Daniel  Wadsworth,  Esq.,  had 
always  manifested  a  lively  interest  in  her  mental  cultivation.  He  had 
known  her  in  childhood,  under  the  roof  of  Madam  Lathrop,  and  had  there 
seen  some  of  her  early  effusions,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  At  his  earnest 
solicitation,  she  made  a  collection  of  her  fugitive  pieces,  and  under  his 
patronage,  and  with  his  influence  and  liberality  cast  around  her  as  a  shield, 
she  first  ventured  to  appear  before  the  public  as  an  author.  Mr.  Wads- 
worth's  regard  for  her  suffered  no  diminution  till  his  death,  which  took 
place  in  1848.  Few  authors  have  found  a  friend  so  kind  and  so  true. 
Of  her  affection  for  him  and  his  amiable  wife,  her  writings  contain  many 
proofs.  Her  Monody  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Wadsworth  has  the  following 
noble  stanza : — 


"Oh,  friend!  thou  didst  o'ermaster  well 
The  pride  of  wealth,  and  multiply 


LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY.  81 

Good  deeds  not  alone  for  the  good  word  of  men, 

But  for  Heaven's  judging  ken, 

And  clear,  omniscient  eye, 
And  surely  where  'the  just  made  perfect'  dwell, 

Earth's  voice  of  highest  eulogy 
Is  like  the  bubble  of  the  far-off  sea ; 

A  sigh  upon  the  grave 
Scarce  moving  the  frail  flowers  that  o'er  its  surface  wave." 

We  have  thus  far  glanced  at  the  principal  scenes  and  circumstances, 
which  appear  to  have  had  an  influence  in  forming  the  character  of  Mrs. 
Sigourney,  and  preparing  her  genius  for  flight.  As  Miss  Huntley,  she 
gave  no  works  to  the  press  except  those  to  which  allusion  has  been  made, 
viz :  "  Moral  Pieces  in  Prose  and  Verse/'  and  a  memoir  of  her  friend, 
Miss  Hyde.  The  "  Sketch  of  Connecticut,  forty  years  since,"  was,  how 
ever,  one  of  her  earliest  productions,  though  not  published  until  1824.  It 
is  honourable  to  her  sensibilities,  that  so  large  a  portion  of  these  works  was 
prompted  by  the  grateful  feelings  of  the  heart.  Her  later  emanations  are 
enriched  with  deeper  trains  of  thought,  and  melodies  of  higher  and  more 
varied  power,  but  these  are  the  genuine  outpourings  of  affection — the  first 
fruits  of  mind,  bathed  in  the  dew  of  life's  morning,  and  laid  upon  the 
altar  of  gratitude. 

The  marriage  of  Miss  Huntley  with  Charles  Sigourney,  Esq.,  merchant 
of  Hartford,  took  place  at  Norwich,  June  16th,  1819. 

Mrs.  Sigourney 's  domestic  life  has  been  varied  with  frequent  excur 
sions  and  tours,  which  have  rendered  her  familiar  with  the  scenery  and 
society  of  most  parts  of  her  own  country,  and  in  1840,  she  went  to  Europe, 
and  remained  there  nearly  a  year,  visiting  England,  Scotland,  and  France. 
"Pleasant  Memories  of  Pleasant  Lands,"  published  in  1843,  and  " Scenes 
in  my  Native  Land,"  published  in  1845,  afford  sufficient  evidence  that  tra 
velling  has  had  a  conspicuous  agency  in  giving  richness  and  variety  to  her 
productions. 

A  personal  stranger  to  Mrs.  Sigourney,  acquainted  only  with  her 
varied  literary  pursuits  and  numerous  writings,  might  be  disposed  to  think 
that  they  occupied  her  whole  time,  and  that  she  had  accomplished  little 
else  in  life.  Such  an  assumption  would  be  entirely  at  variance  with  the 
truth.  The  popular,  but  now  somewhat  stale  notion,  that  female  writers 
are,  of  course,  negligent  in  personal  costume,  domestic  thrift,  and  all  those 
social  offices  which  are  woman's  appropriate  and  beautiful  sphere  of  action, 
can  never  prop  its  baseless  and  falling  fabric  with  her  example.  She  has 
sacrificed  no  womanly  or  household  duty,  no  office  of  friendship  or  bene 
volence  for  the  society  of  the  muses.  That  she  is  able  to  perform  so  much 
in  so  many  varied  departments  of  literature  and  social  obligation,  is  owing 
to  her  diligence.  She  acquired  in  early  life  that  lesson — simple,  homely, 
but  invaluable — to  make  the  most  of  passing  time.  Hours  are  seeds  of 
gold;  she  has  not  sown  them  on  the  wind,  but  planted  them  in  good 
ground,  and  the  harvest  is  consequently  a  hundred  fold. 
11 


82  LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY. 

Authentic  report  informs  us  that  no  one  better  fills  the  arduous  station 
of  a  New  England  housekeeper,  in  all  its  various  and  complicated  depart 
ments.  Nor  are  the  calls  of  benevolence  unheeded.  Like  that  distin 
guished  philanthropist,  from  whom  she  derives  her  intermediate  name,  she 
is  said  to  go  about  doing  good.  Much  of  her  time  is  devoted  to  the  practi 
cal,  silent,  unambitious  duties  of  charity.  Nor  must  we  omit  the  crowning 
praise  of  all — the  report  of  her  humble,  unceasing,  unpretending,  untiring 
devotion. 

We  may  not  conclude  this  brief  review  of  the  life  of  Mrs.  Sigourney, 
without  allusion  to  a  recent  afflictive  stroke  of  Providence,  which  has  over 
shadowed  her  path  with  a  dark  cloud,  and  almost  bowed  her  spirit  to  the 
earth  with  its  weight.  She  was  the  mother  of  two  children ;  the  young 
est,  an  only  son,  had  just  arrived  at  the  verge  of  manhood,  when  he  was 
selected  by  the  Destroying  Angel  as  his  own,  and  veiled  from  her  sight.* 
A  sorrow  like  this,  she  had  never  before  known.  Such  a  bereave 
ment  cannot  take  place  and  not  leave  desolation  behind.  Around  this 
early-smitten  one,  the  fond  hopes  of  a  mother's  heart  had  clustered ;  all 
those  hopes  are  extinguished;  innumerable,  tender  sympathies  are  cut 
away ;  the  glowing  expectations,  nurtured  for  many  years,  are  destroyed, 
and  the  cold  urn  left  in  their  place.  But  the  Divine  Hand  knows  how  to 
remove  branches  from  the  tree  without  blighting  it ;  and  though  crushed 
and  wounded,  the  faith  of  the  Christian  sustains  the  bereaved  parent.  Her 
reply  to  a  friend  who  sympathized  in  her  affliction,  will  show  both  the 
depth  of  her  sorrow,  and  the  source  of  her  consolation — "God's  time  and 
will  are  beautiful,  and  through  bursts  of  blinding  tears  I  give  him 
thanks." 

The  amount  of  Mrs.  Sigourney's  literary  labours  may  be  estimated 
from  the  following  list  of  her  publications,  which  is  believed  to  be  nearly 
complete.  The  works  are  all  prose,  and  all  12mo.,  unless  otherwise 
expressly  stated :  "  Moral  Pieces  in  Prose  and  Verse,"  267  pages,  1815 ; 
"Biography  and  Writings  of  A.  M.  Hyde,"  241  pp.,  1816;  "Traits  of 
the  Aborigines,"  a  poem,  284  pp.,  1822 ;  "  Sketch  of  Connecticut,  forty 
years  since,"  280  pp.,  1824 ;  "Poems,"  228  pp.,  1827;  "Biography  of 
Females,"  112  pp.,  small  size,  1829;  "Biography  of  Pious  Persons," 
338  pp.,  1832,  two  editions  the  first  year,  now  out  of  print,  as  are  all  the 
preceding  volumes;  "  Evening  Readings  in  History,"  128  pp.,  1833 ;  "  Let 
ters  to  Young  Ladies,"  295  pp.,  1833,  twenty  editions;  "Memoirs  of 
Phebe  Hammond,"  30  pp.,  1833 ;  "  How  to  be  Happy,"  126  pp.,  1833, 
two  editions  the  first  year,  and  several  in  London;  "Sketches,"  216 
pp.,  1834;  "Poetry  for  Children,"  102  pp.,  small  size,  1834;  "Select 
Poems,"  338  pp.,  1834,  eleven  editions;  "Tales  and  Essays  for  Children," 
128  pp.,  1834;  "Zinzendorff  and  other  Poems,"  300  pp.,  1834;  "His 
tory  of  Marcus  Aurelius,"  122  pp.,  1835 ;  "  Olive  Buds,"  136  pp.,  1836 ; 

*  Andrew  M.  Sigourney  died  in  Hartford,  June,  1850,  aged  nineteen  years. 


LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY.  83 

"Girls'  Reading  Book/'  prose  and  poetry,  243  pp.,  1838,  between 
twenty  and  thirty  editions ;  "  Boys'  Reading  Book,"  prose  and  poetry, 
247  pp.,  1839,  many  editions;  "Letters  to  Mothers,"  296  pp.,  1838, 
eight  editions;  "Pocahontas  and  other  Poems/'  283  pp.,  1841,  reprinted 
in  London;  "Poems,"  255  pp.,  small  size,  1842;  "Pleasant  Memoirs 
of  Pleasant  Lands,"  368  pp.,  prose  and  poetry,  1842 ;  "  Child's  Book," 
prose  and  poetry,  150  pp.,  small  size,  1844;  "Scenes  in  my  Native 
Land,"  prose  and  poetry,  319  pp.,  1844;  "Poems  for  the  Sea,"  152 
pp.,  1845;  "Voice  of  Flowers,"  prose  and  poetry,  123  pp.,  small  size, 
1845,  eight  editions  in  five  years ;  "  The  Lovely  Sisters,"  100  pp.,  small 
size,  1845;  "Myrtis  and  other  Etchings,"  292  pp.,  1846;  "Weeping 
Willow,"  poetry,  128  pp.,  small  size,  1846,  six  editions  in  four  years; 
"  Water  Drops,"  prose  and  poetry,  275  pp.,  1847 ;  "  Illustrated  Poems," 
408  pp.  8vo.,  1848;  "Whisper  to  a  Bride,"  prose  and  poetry,  80  pp., 
small  size,  1849 ;  "  Letters  to  my  Pupils,"  320  pp.,  1851. 

Besides  these  volumes,  thirty-five  in  number,  she  has  produced  several 
pamphlets,  and  almost  innumerable  contributions  to  current  periodical 
literature.  She  has  moreover  maintained  a  very  extensive  literary  corres 
pondence,  amounting  in  some  years  to  an  exchange  of  thirteen  or  fourteen 
hundred  letters. 

Perhaps  no  one,  who  has  written  so  much  as  Mrs.  Sigourney,  has  writ 
ten  so  little  to  cause  self-regret  in  the  review.  The  secret  of  this  lies  in 
that  paramount  sense  of  duty  which  is  the  obvious  spring  of  her  writings, 
as  of  all  her  conduct.  If  it  has  not  led  her  to  the  highest  regions  of  fancy, 
it  has  saved  her  from  all  those  disgraceful  falls  that  too  often  mark  the 
track  of  genius.  Along  the  calm,  sequestered  vale  of  duty  and  usefulness, 
her  writings,  like  a  gentle  river  fresh  from  its  mountain  springs,  have 
gladdened  many  a  quiet  home,  have  stimulated  into  fertility  many  a  gene 
rous  heart.  Some  of  her  small  volumes,  like  the  "  Whisper  to  a  Bride," 
are  unpretending  in  character  as  they  are  diminutive  in  appearance,  but 
they  contain  a  wealth  of  beauty  and  goodness  that  few  would  believe  that 
have  not  examined  them.  Of  her  larger  volumes,  none  are  more  widely 
known  than  the  "Letters  to  Young  Ladies,"  and  "Letters  to  Mothers." 
"  Letters  to  my  Pupils,"  just  published,  will  probably  be  equally  popular, 
as  they  are  equally  beautiful.  The  scraps  of  autobiography,  so  gracefully 
mixed  up  with  her  reminiscences  of  others,  will  add  a  special  charm  to 
this  volume  for  the  thousands  who  have  felt  the  genial  influence  of  her 
teachings  and  writings. 

The  first  of  the  extracts  which  follow  is  from  "Myrtis  and  other 
Etchings." 


84  LYDIA   H.    SIGOUKNEY. 


THE  LOST  CHILDREN. 

"I  ask  the  moon,  so  sadly  fair, 

The  night's  cold  breath  through  shadows  drawn, 
'  Where  are  they  who  were  mine  ?  and  where  ?' 
A  void  but  answers,  'All  are  gone.' "  Miss  H.  F.  GOULD. 

THERE  was  sickness  in  the  dwelling  of  the  emigrant.  Stretched 
upon  his  humble  bed,  he  depended  on  that  nursing  care  which  a 
wife,  scarcely  less  enfeebled  than  himself,  was  able  to  bestow.  A 
child,  in  its  third  summer,  had  been  recently  laid  to  its  last  rest 
beneath  a  turf  mound  under  their  window.  Its  image  was  in  the 
heart  of  the  mother,  as  she  tenderly  ministered  to  her  husband. 

"  Wife,  I  am  afraid  I  think  too  much  about  poor  little  Thomas. 
He  was  so  well  and  rosy  when  we  left  our  old  home,  scarcely  a 
year  since.  Sometimes  I  feel,  if  we  had  but  continued  there,  our 
darling  would  not  have  died." 

The  tear  which  had  long  trembled,  and  been  repressed  by  the 
varieties  of  conjugal  solicitude,  burst  forth  at  these  words.  It 
freely  overflowed  the  brimming  eyes,  and  relieved  the  suffocating 
emotions  which  had  striven  for  the  mastery. 

"  Do  not  reproach  yourself,  dear  husband.  His  time  had  come. 
He  is  happier  there  than  here.  Let  us  be  thankful  for  those  that 
are  spared." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  little  girls  are  growing  pale.  I  am 
afraid  you  confine  them  too  closely  to  this  narrow  house,  and  to  the 
sight  of  sickness.  The  weather  is  growing  settled.  You  had 
better  send  them  out  to  change  the  air,  and  run  about  at  their  will. 
Mary,  lay  the  baby  on  the  bed  by  me,  and  ask  mother  to  let  little 
sister  and  you  go  out  for  a  ramble." 

The  mother  assented,  and  the  children,  who  were  four  and  six 
years  old,  departed,  full  of  delight.  A  clearing  had  been  made  in 
front  of  their  habitation,  and,  by  ascending  a  knoll  in  its  vicinity, 
another  dwelling  might  be  seen  environed  with  the  dark  spruce  and 
hemlock.  In  the  rear  of  these  houses  was  a  wide  expanse  of  ground, 
interspersed  with  thickets,  rocky  acclivities,  and  patches  of  forest 


LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY.  85 

trees,  while  far  away,  one  or  two  lakelets  peered  up,  wiOi  their  blue 
eyes  deeply  fringed.  The  spirits  of  the  children,  as  they  entered 
this  unenclosed  region,  were  like  those  of  the  birds  that  surrounded 
them.  They  playfully  pursued  each  other  with  merry  laughter, 
and  such  a  joyous  sense  of  liberty,  as  makes  the  blood  course  light- 
somely  through  the  veins. 

"  Little  Jane,  let  us  go  farther  than  ever  we  have  before.  We 
will  see  what  lies  beyond  those  high  hills,  for  it  is  but  just  past 
noon,  and  we  can  get  back  long  before  supper-time." 

"  Oh !  yes,  let  us  follow  that  bright  blue-bird,  and  see  what  he 
is  flying  after.  But  don't  go  in  among  those  briers  that  tear  the 
clothes  so,  for  mother  has  no  time  to  mend  them." 

"  Sister,  sweet  sister,  here  are  some  snowdrops  in  this  green 
hollow,  exactly  like  those  in  my  old,  dear  garden,  so  far  away. 
How  pure  they  are,  and  cool,  just  like  the  baby's  face,  when  the 
wind  blows  on  it !  Father  and  mother  will  like  us  to  bring  them 
some." 

Filling  their  little  aprons  with  the  spoil,  and  still  searching  for 
something  new  or  beautiful,  they  prolonged  their  ramble,  uncon 
scious  of  the  flight  of  time,  or  the  extent  of  space  they  were  tra 
versing.  At  length,  admonished  by  the  chilliness,  which  often 
marks  the  declining  hours  of  the  early  days  of  spring,  they  turned 
their  course  homeward.  But  the  returning  clue  was  lost,  and  they 
walked  rapidly,  only  to  plunge  more  inextricably  in  the  mazes  of 
the  wilderness. 

"  Sister  Mary,  are  these  pretty  snow-drows  good  to  eat  ?  I  am 
so  hungry,  and  my  feet  ache,  and  will  not  go  !" 

"  Let  me  lift  you  over  this  brook,  little  Jane ;  and  hold  tighter 
by  my  hand,  and  walk  as  bravely  as  you  can,  that  we  may  get  home, 
and  help  mother  set  the  table." 

"  We  won't  go  so  far  next  time,  will  we  ?  What  is  the  reason 
that  I  cannot  see  any  better?" 

"Is  not  that  the  roof  of  our  house,  dear  Jane,  and  the  thin 
smoke  curling  up  among  the  trees  ?  Many  times  before,  have  I 
thought  so,  and  found  it  only  a  rock  or  a  mist." 

As  evening  drew  its  veil,  the  hapless  wanderers,  bewildered, 


83  LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY. 

hurried  to  and  fro,  calling  for  their  parents,  or  shouting  for  help, 
until  their  strength  was  exhausted.  Torn  by  brambles,  and  their 
poor  feet  bleeding  from  the  rocks  which  strewed  their  path,  they 
sunk  down,  moaning  bitterly.  The  fears  that  overpower  the  heart 
of  a  timid  child,  who,  for  the  first  time  finds  night  approaching, 
without  shelter  or  protection,  wrought  on  the  youngest  to  insup 
portable  anguish.  The  elder,  filled  with  the  sacred  warmth  of 
sisterly  affection,  after  the  first  paroxysms  of  grief,  seemed  to  forget 
herself,  and  sitting  upon  the  damp  ground,  and  folding  the  little 
one  in  her  arms,  rocked  her  with  a  gentle  movement,  soothing  and 
hushing  her  like  a  nursling. 

"  Don't  cry  !  oh  !  don't  cry  so,  dearest ;  say  your  prayers,  and 
fear  will  fly  away." 

"  How  can  I  kneel  down  here  in  the  dark  woods,  or  say  my 
prayers,  when  mother  is  not  by  to  hear  me?  I  think  I  see  a 
large  wolf,  with  sharp  ears,  and  a  mouth  wide  open,  and  hear  noises 
as  of  many  fierce  lions  growling." 

"  Dear  little  Jane,  do  say,  '  Our  Father,  who  art  in  Heaven/ 
Be  a  good  girl,  and,  when  we  have  rested  here  a  while,  perhaps  He 
may  be  pleased  to  send  some  one  to  find  us,  and  to  fetch  us  home." 

Harrowing  was  the  anxiety  in  the  lowly  hut  of  the  emigrant 
when  day  drew  towards  its  close,  and  the  children  came  not.  A 
boy,  their  whole  assistant  in  the  toils  of  agriculture,  at  his  return 
from  labour,  was  sent  in  search  of  them,  but  in  vain.  As  evening 
drew  on,  the  inmates  of  the  neighbouring  house,  and  those  of  a 
small  hamlet,  at  considerable  distance,  were  alarmed,  and  associated 
in  the  pursuit.  The  agony  of  the  invalid  parents,  through  that 
night,  was  uncontrollable ;  starting  at  every  footstep,  shaping  out 
of  every  breeze  the  accents  of  the  lost  ones  returning,  or  their  cries 
of  misery.  While  the  morning  was  yet  gray,  the  father,  no  longer 
to  be  restrained,  and  armed  with  supernatural  strength,  went  forth, 
amid  the  ravings  of  his  fever,  to  take  part  in  the  pursuit.  With 
fiery  cheeks,  his  throbbing  head  bound  with  a  handkerchief,  he  was 
seen  in  the  most  dangerous  and  inaccessible  spots — caverns — ravines 
— beetling  cliffs — leading  the  way  to  every  point  of  peril,  in  the 
phrensy  of  grief  and  disease. 


LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY.  87 

The  second  night  drew  on,  with  one  of  those  sudden  storms  of 
sleet  and  snow,  which  sometimes  chill  the  hopes  of  the  young 
spring.  Then  was  a  sadder  sight — a  woman  with  attenuated  form, 
flying  she  knew  not  whither,  and  continually  exclaiming,  "My 
children !  my  children !"  It  was  fearful  to  see  a  creature  so 
deadly  pale,  with  the  darkness  of  midnight  about  her.  She  heeded 
no  advice  to  take  care  of  herself,  nor  persuasion  to  return  to  her 
home. 

"  They  call  me  !  Let  me  go  !  I  will  lay  them  in  their  bed  myself. 
How  cold  their  feet  are  !  What !  is  Jane  singing  her  nightly  hymn 
without  me  ?  No  !  no  !  She  cries  !  Some  evil  serpent  has  stung 
her!"  and,  shrieking  wildly,  the  poor  mother  disappeared,  like  a 
hunted  deer,  in  the  depths  of  the  forest. 

Oh !  might  she  but  have  wrapped  them  in  her  arms,  as  they 
shivered  in  their  dismal  recess,  under  the  roots  of  a  tree,  uptorn 
by  some  wintry  tempest !  Yet  how  could  she  imagine  the  spot 
where  they  lay,  or  believe  that  those  little  wearied  limbs  had  borne 
them,  through  bog  and  bramble,  more  than  six  miles  from  the 
parental  door  ?  In  the  niche  which  we  have  mentioned,  a  faint 
moaning  sound  might  till  be  heard. 

"  Sister,  do  not  tell  me  that  we  shall  never  see  the  baby  any 
more.  I  see  it  now,  and  Thomas,  too !  dear  Thomas  !  Why  do 
they  say  he  died  and  was  buried  ?  He  is  close  by  me,  just  above 
my  head.  There  are  many  more  babies  with  him — a  host.  They 
glide  by  me  as  if  they  had  wings.  They  look  warm  and  happy.  I 
should  be  glad  to  be  with  them,  and  join  their  beautiful  plays.  But 
0,  how  cold  I  am !  Cover  me  close,  Mary.  Take  my  head  into 
your  bosom." 

"  Pray  do  not  go  to  sleep  quite  yet,  dear  Jane.  I  want  to  hear 
your  voice,  and  talk  with  you.  It  is  so  very  sad  to  be  waking  here 
alone.  If  I  could  but  see  your  face  when  you  are  asleep,  it  would 
be  a  comfort.  But  it  is  so  dark,  so  dark  /" 

Rousing  herself  with  difficulty,  she  unties  her  apron,  and  spreads 
it  over  the  head  of  the  child,  to  protect  it  from  the  driving  snow ; 
she  pillows  the  cold  cheek  on  her  breast,  and  grasps  more  firmly 
the  benumbed  hand  by  which  she  had  so  faithfully  led  her,  through 


88  LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY. 

all  their  terrible  pilgrimage.  There  they  are! — The  one  moves 
not.  The  other  keeps  vigil,  feebly  giving  iterance,  at  intervals, 
to  a  low  suffocating  spasm  from  a  throat  dried  with  hunger.  Once 
more  she  leans  upon  her  elfcow,  to  look  on  the  face  of  the  little  one, 
for  whom  as  a  mother  she  has  cared.  With  love  strong  as  death, 
she  comforts  herself  that  her  sister  slumbers  calmly,  because  the 
stroke  of  the  destroyer  has  silenced  her  sobbings. 

Ah !  why  come  ye  not  hither,  torches  that  gleam  through  the 
wilderness,  and  men  who  shout  to  each  other  ?  why  come  ye  not 
this  way  ?  See !  they  plunge  into  morasses,  they  cut  their  path 
through  tangled  thickets,  they  ford  waters,  they  ascend  mountains, 
they  explore  forests — but  the  lost  are  not  found ! 

The  third  and  fourth  nights  come  and  depart.  Still  the  woods 
are  filled  with  eager  searchers.  Sympathy  has  gathered  them  from 
remote  settlements.  Every  log-cabin  sends  forth  what  it  can  spare 
for  this  work  of  pity  and  of  sorrow.  They  cross  each  other's  track. 
Incessantly  they  interrogate  and  reply,  but  in  vain.  The  lost  are 
not  found ! 

In  her  mournful  dwelling,  the  mother  sat  motionless.  Her  infant 
was  upon  her  lap.  The  strong  duty  to  succor  its  helplessness,  grap 
pled  with  the  might  of  grief,  and  prevailed.  Her  eyes  were  riveted 
upon  its  brow.  No  sound  passed  her  white  lips.  Pitying  women, 
from  distant  habitations,  gathered  around  and  wept  for  her.  They 
even  essayed  some  words  of  consolation.  But  she  answered  nothing. 
She  looked  not  toward  them.  She  had  no  ear  for  human  voices. 
In  her  soul  was  the  perpetual  cry  of  the  lost.  Nothing  overpowered 
it,  but  the  wail  of  her  living  babe.  She  ministered  to  its  necessities, 
and  that  Heaven-inspired  impulse  saved  her.  She  had  no  longer  any 
hope  for  those  who  had  wandered  away.  Horrid  images  were  in 
her  fancy — the  ravening  beast — black  pits  of  stagnant  water — birds 
of  fierce  beak — venomous,  coiling  snakes.  She  bowed  herself  down 
to  them,  and  travailed  as  in  the  birth-hour,  fearfully,  and  in  silence. 
But  the  hapless  babe  on  her  bosom,  touched  an  electric  chord,  and 
saved  her  from  despair.  Maternal  love,  with  its  pillar  of  cloud  and 
of  flame,  guided  her  through  the  desert,  that  she  perished  not. 
Sunday  came,  and  the  search  was  unabated.  It  seemed  only 


LYDIA   II.    SIGOURNEY.  89 

marked  by  a  deeper  tinge  of  melancholy.  The  most  serious  felt  it 
fitting  to  go  forth  at  that  sacred  season  to  seek  the  lost,  though  not, 
like  their  master,  girded  with  the  power  to  save.  Parents  remember 
that  it  might  have  been  their  own  little  ones  who  had  thus  strayed 
from  the  fold,  and  with  their  gratitude,  took  a  portion  of  the 
mourner's  spirit  into  their  hearts.  Even  the  sad  hope  of  gathering 
the  dead  for  the  sepulchre,  the  sole  hope  that  now  sustained  their 
toil,  began  to  fade  into  doubt.  As  they  climbed  over  huge  trees, 
which  the  winds  of  winter  had  prostrated,  or  forced  their  way 
among  rending  brambles,  sharp  rocks,  and  close-woven  branches, 
they  marvelled  how  such  fragile  forms  would  have  endured  hard 
ships  by  which  the  vigour  of  manhood  was  impeded  and  perplexed. 

The  echo  of  a  gun  rang  suddenly  through  the  forest.  It  was 
repeated.  Hill  to  hill  bore  the  thrilling  message.  It  was  the  con 
certed  signal  that  their  anxieties  were  ended.  The  hurrying  seekers 
followed  its  sound.  From  a  commanding  cliff,  a  white  flag  was  seen 
to  float.  It  was  the  herald  that 'the  lost  was  found. 

There  they  were — near  the  base  of  a  wooded  hillock,  half  cradled 
among  the  roots  of  an  uptorn  chestnut.  There  they  lay,  cheek  to 
cheek,  hand  clasped  in  hand.  The  blasts  had  mingled  in  one 
mesh  their  dishevelled  locks,  for  they  had  left  home  with  their  poor 
heads  uncovered.  The  youngest  had  passed  away  in  sleep.  There 
was  no  contortion  on  her  brow,  though  her  features  were  sunk  and 
sharpened  by  famine. 

The  elder  had  borne  a  deeper  and  longer  anguish.  Her  eyes 
were  open,  though  she  had  watched  till  death  came ;  watched  over 
that  little  one,  for  whom,  through  those  days  and  nights  of  terror, 
she  had  cared  and  sorrowed  like  a  mother.  Strong  and  rugged 
men  shed  tears  when  they  saw  she  had  wrapped  her  in  her  own 
scanty  apron,  and  striven  with  her  embracing  arms  to  preserve  the 
warmth  of  vitality,  even  after  the  cherished  spirit  had  fled  away. 
The  glazed  eyeballs  wrere  strained,  as  if,  to  the  last,  they  had  been 
gazing  for  her  father's  roof,  or  the  wreath  of  smoke  that  should 
guide  her  there. 

Sweet  sisterly  love  !  so  patient  in  all  adversity,  so  faithful  unto 
the  end,  found  it  not  a  Father's  house,  where  it  might  enter  with 


12 


90  LYDIA    H.    SIGOURNEY. 

the  little  one,  and  be  sundered  no  more  ?  Found  it  not  a  fold 
whence  no  lamb  can  wander  and  be  lost  ?  a  mansion  where  there 
is  no  death,  neither  sorrow  nor  crying?  Forgot  it  not  all  its 
sufferings  for  joy  at  that  dear  Redeemer's  welcome,  which,  in  its 
cradle,  it  had  been  taught  to  lisp — "  Suffer  little  children  to  come 
unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven." 


"I  HAVE  SEEN  AN  END  OF  ALL  PERFECTION." 

I  HAVE  seen  a  man  in  the  glory  of  his  days,  and  in  the  pride  of 
his  strength.  He  was  built  like  the  strong  oak,  that  strikes  its  root 
deep  in  the  earth — like  the  tall  cedar,  that  lifts  its  head  above  the 
trees  of  the  forest.  He  feared  no  danger — he  felt  no  sickness — he 
wondered  why  any  should  groan  or  sigh  at  pain.  His  mind  was 
vigorous  like  his  body ;  he  was  perplexed  at  no  intricacy,  he  was 
daunted  at  no  obstacle.  Into  hidden  things  he  searched,  and  what 
was  crooked  he  made  plain.  He  went  forth  boldly  upon  the  face 
of  the  mighty  deep.  He  surveyed  the  nations  of  the  earth.  He 
measured  the  distances  of  the  stars,  and  called  them  by  their  names. 
He  gloried  in  the  extent  of  his  knowledge,  in  the  vigour  of  his 
understanding,  and  strove  to  search  even  into  what  the  Almighty 
had  concealed.  And  when  I  looked  upon  him,  I  said  with  the  poet, 
"  what  a  piece  of  work  is  man  !  how  noble  in  reason  !  how  infinite 
in  faculties !  in  form  and  moving,  how  express  and  admirable !  in 
action  how  like  an  angel !  in  apprehension  how  like  a  god  !" 

I  returned — but  his  look  was  no  more  lofty,  nor  his  step  proud. 
His  broken  frame  wras  like  some  ruined  tower.  His  hairs  were 
white  and  scattered,  and  his  eye  gazed  vacantly  upon  the  passers 
by.  The  vigour  of  his  intellect  was  wasted,  and  of  all  that  he  had 
gained  by  study,  nothing  remained.  He  feared  when  there  was  no 
danger,  and  where  was  no  sorrow  he  wept.  His  decaying  memory 
had  become  treacherous.  It  showed  him  only  broken  images  of 
the  glory  that  had  departed.  His  house  was  to  him  like  a  strange 


LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY.  91 

land,  and  his  friends  were  counted  as  enemies.  He  thought  him 
self  strong  and  healthful,  while  his  feet  tottered  on  -the  verge  of  the 
grave.  He  said  of  his  son,  "he  is  my  brother;"  of  his  daughter, 
"I  know  her  not."  He  even  inquired  what  was  his  own  name. 
And  as  I  gazed  mournfully  upon  him,  one  who  supported  his  feeble 
frame,  and  ministered  to  his  many  wants,  said  to  me,  "  Let  thine 
heart  receive  instruction,  for  thou  hast  seen  an  end  of  all  perfec 
tion  !" 

I  have  seen  a  beautiful  female,  treading  the  first  stages  of  youth, 
and  entering  joyfully  into  the  pleasures  of  life.  The  glance  of  her 
eye  was  variable  and  sweet,  and  on  her  cheek  trembled  something 
like  the  first  blush  of  the  morning.  Her  lips  moved,  and  there  was 
melody,  and  when  she  floated  in  the  dance,  her  light  form,  like  the 
aspen,  seemed  to  move  with  every  breeze. 

I  returned — she  was  not  in  the  dance.  I  sought  her  among  her 
gay  companions,  but  I  found  her  not.  Her  eye  sparkled  not  there 
— the  music  of  her  voice  was  silent.  She  rejoiced  on  earth  no 
more.  I  saw  a  train — sable  and  slow-paced.  Sadly  they  bore 
towards  an  open  grave  what  once  was  animated  and  beautiful.  As 
they  drew  near,  they  paused,  and  a  voice  broke  the  solemn  silence : 
"  Man  that  is  born  of  a  woman,  is  of  few  days  and  full  of  misery. 
He  cometh  up,  and  is  cut  down  like  a  flower,  he  fleeth  as  it  were  a 
shadow,  and  never  continueth  in  one  stay."  Then  they  let  down 
into  the  deep,  dark  pit,  that  maiden  whose  lips  but  a  few  days  since 
were  like  the  half-blown  rosebud.  I  shuddered  at  the  sound  of 
clods  falling  upon  the  hollow  coffin.  Then  I  heard  a  voice  saying, 
"Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust."  They  covered  her 
with  the  damp  soil,  and  the  uprooted  turf  of  the  valley,  and  turned 
again  to  their  own  homes.  But  one  mourner  lingered  to  cast  him 
self  upon  the  tomb.  And  as  he  wept  he  said,  "  There  is  no  beauty, 
nor  grace,  nor  loveliness,  but  what  vanisheth  like  the  morning  dew. 
I  have  seen  an  end  of  all  perfection  !" 

I  saw  an  infant,  with  a  ruddy  brow,  and  a  form  like  polished 
ivory.  Its  motions  were  graceful,  and  its  merry  laughter  made 
other  hearts  glad.  Sometimes  it  wept, — and  again  it  rejoiced, — 
when  none  knew  why. .  But  whether  its  cheek  dimpled  with  smiles, 


92  LYDIA    II.    SIGOURNEY. 

or  its  blue  eyes  shone  more  brilliant  through  tears,  it  was  beautiful. 
It  was  beautiful  because  it  was  innocent.  And  care-worn  and  sin 
ful  men  admired,  when  they  beheld  it.  It  was  like  the  first  blos 
som  which  some  cherished  plant  has  put  forth,  whose  cup  sparkles 
with  a  dew-drop,  and  whose  head  reclines  upon  the  parent  stem. 

Again  I  looked.  It  had  become  a  child.  The  lamp  of  reason 
had  beamed  into  its  mind.  It  was  simple,  and  single-hearted,  and 
a  follower  of  the  truth.  It  loved  every  little  bird  that  sang  in  the 
trees,  and  every  fresh  blossom.  Its  heart  danced  with  joy  as  it 
looked  around  on  this  good  and  pleasant  world.  It  stood  like  a 
lamb  before  its  teachers — it  bowed  its  ear  to  instruction — it  walked 
in  the  way  of  knowledge.  It  was  not  proud,  nor  stubborn,  nor 
envious,  and  it  had  never  heard  of  the  vices  and  vanities  of  the 
world.  And  when  I  looked  upon  it,  I  remembered  our  Saviour's 
words,  "  Except  ye  become  as  little  children,  ye  cannot  enter  into 
the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 

I  saw  a  man,  whom  the  world  calls  honourable.  Many  waited 
for  his  smile.  They  pointed  to  the  fields  that  were  his,  and  talked 
of  the  silver  and  gold  which  he  had  gathered.  They  praised  the 
stateliness  of  his  domes,  and  extolled  the  honour  of  his  family.  But 
the  secret  language  of  his  heart  was,  "  By  my  wisdom  have  I  gotten 
all  this."  So  he  returned  no  thanks  to  God,  neither  did  he  fear  or 
serve  him.  As  I  passed  along,  I  heard  the  complaints  of  the 
labourers,  who  had  reaped  his  fields — and  the  cries  of  the  poor, 
whose  covering  he  had  taken  away.  The  sound  of  feasting  and 
revelry  was  in  his  mansion,  and  the  unfed  beggar  came  tottering 
from  his  door.  But  he  considered  not  that  the  cries  of  the  oppressed 
were  continually  entering  into  the  ears  of  the  Most  High.  And 
when  I  knew  that  this  man  was  the  docile  child  whom  I  had  loved, 
the  beautiful  infant  on  whom  I  had  gazed  with  delight,  I  said  in 
my  bitterness,  "  Now,  have  I  seen  an  end  of  all  perfection  /"  And 
I  laid  my  mouth  in  the  dust. 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


MRS.  HALE,  so  widely  known  by  her  efforts  to  promote  the  intellectual 
condition  of  her  sex,  is  a  native  of  Newport,  New  Hampshire.  Her 
maiden  name  was  Sarah  Josepha  Buell.  Her  husband,  David  Hale,  was 
a  lawyer.  By  his  death,  she  was  left  the  sole  protector  of  five  children, 
the  eldest  then  but  seven  years  old.  It  was  in  the  hope  of  gaining  for 
them  the  means  of  support  and  education,  that  she  engaged  in  authorship 
as  a  profession.  Her  first  attempt  was  a  small  volume  of  poems,  printed 
for  her  benefit  by  the  Freemasons,  of  which  fraternity  her  husband  had 
been  a  member.  This  was  followed  by  "Northwood,"  a  novel  in  two 
volumes,  published  in  1827. 

Early  in  the  following  year,  Mrs.  Hale  was  invited  from  her  native 
State  to  Boston,  to  take  charge  of  the  editorial  department  of  "  The 
Ladies'  Magazine,"  the  first  American  periodical  devoted  exclusively  to 
her  sex.  She  removed  to  Boston,  accordingly,  in  1828,  and  continued  to 
edit  the  magazine  until  1837,  when  it  was  united  with  the  "  Lady's  Book" 
of  Philadelphia.  The  literary  department  of  the  "  Lady's  Book"  was  then 
placed  in  her  charge,  and  has  so  remained  ever  since.  She  continued, 
however,  for  several  years  to  reside  in  Boston,  to  superintend  the  educa 
tion  of  her  sons,  then  students  at  Harvard.  In  1841,  she  removed  to 
Philadelphia,  where  she  still  lives. 

While  living  in  Boston,  Mrs.  Hale  originated  the  noble  idea  of  the 
"  Seaman's  Aid  Society,"  over  which  she  was  called  to  preside,  and  of 
which  she  continued  to  be  the  president  until  her  removal  to  Philadelphia. 
This  institution,  or  rather  Mrs.  Hale  as  its  animating  spirit,  first  suggested 
the  plan  of  a  "  Home  for  Sailors,"  and,  showed  its  practicability  by  esta 
blishing  one  in  Boston,  which  became  completely  successful.  The  many 
establishments  of  this  kind,  now  existing  in  various  ports,  all  took  their 
origin  in  that  of  the  Boston  "  Seaman's  Aid  Society,"  and  in  the  ideas  and 
reasonings  of  their  first  seven  annual  reports,  all  of  which  were  from  the 

(93) 


94  SARAH   J.    HALE. 

pen  of  Mrs.  Hale.  Nothing  that  she  has  ever  written,  probably,  has  been 
more  productive  of  good  than  this  series  of  annual  reports ;  and  though 
they  may  be,  from  their  official  character,  such  as  to  add  nothing  to  her 
literary  laurels,  they  certainly  form  an  important  addition  to  her  general 
claims  to  honour  as  one  of  the  wise  and  good  of  the  land. 

Besides  "North wood,"  which  was  republished  in  London  under  the 
title  of  "A  New  England  Tale,"  her  published  works  are  :  " Sketches  of 
American  Character;"  "  Traits  of  American  Life;"  "  Flora's  Interpreter," 
of  which  more  than  forty  thousand  copies  have  been  sold,  besides  English 
reprints;  "The  Ladies'  Wreath,"  a  selection  from  the  female  poets  of 
England  and  America;"  "The  Good  Housekeeper,  the  way  to  live  well, 
and  to  be  well  while  we  live,"  a  manual  of  cookery,  of  which  large  and  very 
numerous  editions  have  been  printed ;  "  Grosvenor,  a  Tragedy ;"  "  Alice 
Ray,  a  Romance  in  Rhyme ;"  "  Harry  Guy,  the  Widow's  Son,  a  Romance 
of  the  Sea"  (the  last  two  written  for  charitable  purposes,  and  the  proceeds 
given  away  accordingly) ;  "  Three  Hours,  or  the  Vigil  of  Love,  and  other 
Poems,"  in  1848;  "  A  Complete  Dictionary  of  Poetical  Quotations,"  a 
work  of  nearly  six  hundred  pages,  large  octavo,  printed  in  double  columns, 
and  containing  selections,  on  subjects  alphabetically  arranged,  from  the 
poets  of  England  and  America ;  "  The  Judge,  a  Drama  of  American 
Life,"  published,  in  numbers,  in  the  Lady's  Book,  and  about  to  be  given 
to  the  world  in  book  form.  Mrs.  Hale  has  also  edited  several  annuals — 
"The  Opal,"  "The  Crocus,"  &c.,  and  prepared  quite  a  number  of  books 
for  the  young.  A  large  number  of  essays,  tales,  and  poems  lie  scattered 
among  the  periodicals  of  the  day,  sufficient  to  fill  several  volumes.  These 
she  proposes  to  collect  and  publish,  in  book  form,  after  concluding  her 
editorial  career. 

By  far  the  most  important  and  honourable  monument  of  her  labour  is 
the  volume  now  passing  through  the  press,  entitled  "  Woman's  Record." 
This  is  a  general  biographical  dictionary  of  distinguished  women  of  all 
nations  and  ages,  filling  about  nine  hundred  pages,  of  the  largest 
octavo  size,  closely  printed  in  double  columns.  Mrs.  Hale  has  been 
engaged  for  several  years  upon  this  undertaking,  the  labour  of  which  was 
enough  to  appal  any  but  a  woman  of  heroic  spirit.  It  needs  no  prophetic 
vision  to  predict  that  this  great  work  will  be  an  enduring  "  Record,"  not 
only  of  woman  in  general,  but  of  the  high  aims,  the  indefatigable  industry, 
the  varied  reading,  and  just  discrimination  of  its  ever  to  be  honoured 
author. 

The  first  extract  from  the  writings  of  Mrs.  Hale  is  taken  from  the  work 
last  named,  and  is  in  some  measure  a  continuation  of  the  present  bio 
graphical  notice. 


SARAH   J.    HALE.  95 


FROM  "WOMAN'S  RECORD." 

A  FEW  words  respecting  the  influences  which  have,  probably, 
caused  me  to  become  the  Chronicler  of  my  own  sex,  may  not  be 
considered  egotistical.  I  was  mainly  educated  by  my  mother,  and 
strictly  taught  to  make  the  Bible  the  guide  of  my  life.  The  books 
to  which  I  had  access  were  few,  very  few,  in  comparison  with  the 
number  given  children  now-a-days ;  but  they  were  such  as  required 
to  be  studied — and  I  did  study  them.  Next  to  the  Bible  and  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  my  earliest  reading  was  Milton,  Addison,  Pope, 
Johnson,  Cowper,  Burns,  and  a  portion  of  Shakspeare.  I  did  not 
obtain  all  his  works  till  I  was  nearly  fifteen.  The  first  regular 
novel  I  read  was  "  The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  when  I  was  quite 
a  child.  I  name  it  on  account  of  the  influence  it  exercised  over 
my  mind.  I  had  remarked  that  of  all  the  books  I  saw,  few  were 
written  by  Americans,  and  none  by  women.  Here  was  a  work,  the 
most  fascinating  I  had  ever  read,  always  excepting  "  The  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  written  by  a  woman  !  How  happy  it  made  me  !  The 
wish  to  promote  the  reputation  of  my  own  sex,  and  do  something 
for  my  own  country,  were  among  the  earliest  mental  emotions  I  can 
recollect.  These  feelings  have  had  a  salutary  influence  by  direct 
ing  my  thoughts  to  a  definite  object ;  my  literary  pursuits  have  had 
an  aim  beyond  self-seeking  of  any  kind.  The  mental  influence  of 
woman  over  her  own  sex,  which  was  so  important  in  my  case,  has 
been  strongly  operative  in  inclining  me  to  undertake  this  my  latest 
work,  "Woman's  Record."  I  have  sought  to  make  it  an  assistant 
in  home  education ;  hoping  the  examples  shown  and  characters  por 
trayed,  might  have  an  inspiration  and  a  power  in  advancing  the 
moral  progress  of  society.  Yet  I  cannot  close  without  adverting 
to  the  ready  and  kind  aid  I  have  always  met  with  from  those  men 
with  whom  I  have  been  most  nearly  connected.  To  my  brother* 
I  owe  what  knowledge  I  possess  of  the  Latin,  and  the  higher 
branches  of  mathematics,  and  of  mental  philosophy.  He  often 
lamented  that  I  could  not,  like  himself,  have  the  privilege  of  a 
*The  late  Judge  Buell,  of  Glen's  Falls,  New  York. 


96  SARAH    J.    HALE. 

college  education.  To  my  husband  I  was  yet  more  deeply  indebted. 
He  was  a  number  of  years  my  senior,  and  far  more  my  superior  in 
learning.  We  commenced,  soon  after  our  marriage,  a  system  of 
study  and  reading  which  we  pursued  while  he  lived.  The  hours 
allowed  were  from  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  till  ten ;  two  hours 
in  the  twenty-four  :  how  I  enjoyed  those  hours  !  In  all  our  mental 
pursuits,  it  seemed  the  aim  of  my  husband  to  enlighten  my  reason, 
strengthen  my  judgment,  and  give  me  confidence  in  my  own  powers 
of  mind,  which  he  estimated  much  higher  than  I.  But  this  appro 
bation  which  he  bestowed  on  my  talents  has  been  of  great  encou 
ragement  to  me  in  attempting  the  duties  that  have  since  become  my 
portion.  And  if  there  is  any  just  praise  due  to  the  works  I  have 
prepared,  the  sweetest  thought  is — that  his  name  bears  the  celebrity. 


THE  MODE. 

WHAT  a  variety  of  changes  there  has  been  in  the  costumes  of 
men  and  women  since  the  fig-leaf  garments  were  in  vogue  !  And 
these  millions  of  changes  have,  each  and  all,  had  their  admirers, 
and  every  fashion  has  been,  in  its  day,  called  beautiful.  It  is  evi 
dent,  therefore,  that  the  reigning  fashion,  whatever  it  be,  com 
prehends  the  essence  of  the  agreeable,  and  that  to  continue  one 
particular  mode  or  costume,  beautiful  for  successive  ages,  it  would 
only  be  necessary  to  keep  it  fashionable.  Some  nations  have  taken 
advantage  of  this  principle  in  the  philosophy  of  dress,  and  have,  by 
that  means,  retained  a  particular  mode  for  centuries ;  and  there  is 
no  doubt  the  belles  of  these  unfading  fashions  were,  and  are,  quite 
as  ardently  admired,  as  though  they  had  changed  the  form  of  their 
apparel  at  every  revolution  of  the  moon. 

In  some  important  particulars  these  fixed  planets  of  fashion  cer 
tainly  have  the  advantage  over  those  who  are  continually  displaying 
a  new  phasis.  They  present  fewer  data  for  observation,  and  con 
sequently,  the  alterations  which  time  will  bring  to  the  fairest 
person  are  less  perceptible,  or,  as  they  always  seem  the  same,  less 


SARAH   J.    HALE.  07 

noted.  There  are  few  trials  more  critical  to  a  waning  beauty,  than 
the  appearing  in  a  new  and  brilliant  fashion.  If  it  becomes  her, 
the  whisper  instantly  runs  round  the  circle,  "  how  young  she  looks  !" 
— a  most  invidious  way  of  hinting  she  is  as  old  as  the  hills ; — if  it 
does  not  become  her,  which  is  usually  the  case,  then  you  will  hear 
the  remark,  "what  an  odious  dress!" — meaning,  the  wearer  looks 
as  ugly  as  the  Fates. 

The  contrast  between  a  new  fashion  and  an  old  familiar  face 
instantly  strikes  the  beholder,  and  makes  him  run  over  all  the 
changes  in  appearance  he  has  seen  the  individual  assume;  and 
then,  there  is  danger  that  the  antiquated  fashions  may  be  revived — 
and  how  provoking  it  is  to  be  questioned  whether  one  remembers 
when  long  waists  and  hoops,  and  ruffled-cuffs  were  worn  ! — A  refer 
ence  to  the  parish-register,  or  the  family-record,  would  not  disclose 
the  age  more  effectually. 

Nor  are  the  youthful  exempted  from  their  share  in  the  evils  of 
change.  It  draws  the  attention  of  the  beholder  to  the  dress,  rather 
than  the  wearers ;  and  it  reminds  bachelors,  palpably  and  alarm 
ingly,  of  the  expense  of  supporting  a  wife  who  must  thus  appear  in 
a  new  costume  every  change  of  the  mode. 

Now,  as  it  is  fashion  which  makes  the  pleasing  in  dress,  were  one 
particular  form  retained  ever  so  long,  it  would  always  please,  and 
thus  the  unnecessary  expense  of  time  and  money  be  avoided ;  and 
the  charges  of  fickleness  and  frivolousness  entirely  repelled.  We 
have  facts  to  support  this  opinion. 

Is  not  the  Spanish  costume  quite  as  becoming  as  our  own  mode  ? 
and  that  costume  has  been  unchanged,  or  nearly  so,  for  centuries ; 
while  the  French  and  English,  from  whom  we  borrow  our  fashions, 
(poor  souls  that  we  are,  to  be  thus  destitute  of  invention  and  taste !) 
have  ransacked  nature,  and  exhausted  art,  for  comparisons  and 
terms  by  which  to  express  the  new  inventions  they  have  displayed 
in  dress. 

We  are  aware  that  a  certain  class  of  political  economists  affect 
to  believe  that,  luxury  is  beneficial  to  a  nation — but  it  is  not  so. 
The  same  reasoning  which  would  make  extravagance  in  dress  com 
mendable,  because  it  employed  manufacturers  and  artists,  would 

13 


98  SARAH   J.    HALE. 

also  make  intemperance  a  virtue  in  those  who  could  afford  to  be 
drunk,  because  the  preparation  of  the  alcohol  employs  labourers, 
and  the  consumption  would  encourage  trade.  All  these  views  of 
the  expediency  of  tolerating  evil  are  a  part  of  that  Machiavellian 
system  of  selfishness  which  has  been  imposed  on  the  world  for  wis 
dom,  but  which  has  proved  its  origin  by  the  corrupting  crimes  and 
miseries  men  have  endured  in  consequence  of  yielding  themselves 
dupes  or  slaves  of  fashion  and  vice. 

We  do  hope,  indeed  believe,  that  a  more  just  appreciation  of  the 
true  interests  and  real  happiness  of  mankind  will  yet  prevail.  The 
improvements,  now  so  rapidly  progressing,  in  the  intellectual  and 
civil  condition  of  nations  must,  we  think,  be  followed  by  a  corres 
ponding  improvement  in  the  tastes  and  pursuits  of  those  who  are 
the  elite  of  society.  Etiquette  and  the  fashions  cannot  be  the  en 
grossing  objects  of  pursuit,  if  people  become  reasonable.  The  excel 
lencies  of  mind  and  heart  will  be  of  more  consequence  to  a  lady 
than  the  colour  of  a  riband  or  the  shape  of  a  bonnet.  "We  would 
not  have  ladies  despise  or  neglect  dress.  They  should  be  always 
fit  to  be  seen ;  personal  neatness  is  indispensable  to  agreeableness 
— almost  to  virtue.  A  proper  portion  of  time  and  attention  must 
scrupulously  be  given  to  external  appearance,  but  not  the  whole  of 
our  days  and  energies.  Is  it  worthy  of  Christians,  pretending  to 
revere  the  precepts  of  HIM  who  commanded  them  not  to  "  take 
thought  what  they  should  put  on,"  to  spend  their  best  years  in  stu 
dying  the  form  of  their  apparel  ?  Trifles  should  not  thus  engross 
us,  and  they  need  not,  if  our  citizens  would  only  shake  off  this 
tyranny  of  fashion,  imposed  by  the  tailors  of  Paris  and  London,  and 
establish  a  national  costume,  which  would,  wherever  an  American 
appeared,  announce  him  as  a  republican,  and  the  countryman  of 
Washington.  The  men  would  probably  do  this,  if  our  ladies  would 
first  show  that  they  have  sufficient  sense  and  taste  to  invent  and 
arrange  their  own  costume  (without  the  inspiration  of  foreign  mil 
liners)  in  accordance  with  those  national  principles  of  comfort,  pro 
priety,  economy,  and  becomingness,  which  are  the  only  true  found 
ation  of  the  elegant  in  apparel. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  elegance  of  appearance,  nor  to  the  pros- 


SARAH   J.    HALE.  99 

perity  of  trade,  that  changes  in  fashion  should  so  frequently  occur. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  article  of  shoes.  What  good  consequence 
results  from  a  change  in  the  fashion  of  shoes  ? 

If  we  have  a  becoming  and  convenient  mode,  why  not  retain  it 
for  centuries,  and  save  all  the  discussions  about  square-toed,  round 
or  peaked — and  all  the  other  ad  infinitum  changes  in  cut  and  trim 
mings  ?  And  if  the  hours  thus  saved  were  devoted  to  reading  or 
exercise,  would  not  the  mind  and  health  be  more  improved  than  if 
we  were  employed  in  deciding  the  rival  claims  of  the  old  and  new 
fashion  of  shoes  to  admiration  ? 

Such  portions  of  time  may  seem  very  trifling,  but  the  aggregate 
of  wasted  hours,  drivelled  away  thus  by  minutes,  makes  a  large 
part  of  the  life  allotted  us. 

We  by  no  means  advocate  an  idle  and  stupid  state  of  society. 
Excitement  is  necessary ;  emulation  is  necessary ;  and  we  must  be 
active  if  we  would  be  happy.  But  there  are  objects  more  worthy 
to  call  forth  the  energies  of  rational  beings  than  the  tie  of  a  cravat, 
or  the  trimming  of  a  bonnet.  And  when  the  moral  and  intel 
lectual  beauty  of  character  is  more  cultivated  and  displayed,  we 
hope  that  the  "foreign  aid  of  ornament"  will  be  found  less  neces 
sary  ;  and  when  all  our  ladies  are  possessed  of  "  inward  greatness, 
unaffected  wisdom,  and  sanctity  of  manners,"  they  will  not  find  a 
continual  flutter  of  fashion  adds  anything  to  the  respect  and  affec 
tion  their  virtues  and  simple  graces  will  inspire. 


LOUISA  C.    TUTHILL. 


AMERICANS  have  excelled  in  the  preparation  of  books  for  the  young 
One  of  the  most  successful  writers  in  this  line,  and  a  writer  of  more  than 
ordinary  success  in  other  departments  of  prose  composition,  is  Mrs.  Louisa 
C.  Tuthill. 

Mrs.  Tuthill  is  descended,  on  both  sides,  from  the  early  colonists  of 
New  Haven,  Connecticut,  one  of  her  ancestors,  on  the  father's  side,  being 
Theophilus  Eaton,  the  first  Governor  of  the  colony.  Her  maiden  name 
was  Louisa  Caroline  Huggins.  She  was  born,  near  the  close  of  the  last 
century,  at  New  Haven,  and  educated  partly  at  New  Haven  and  partly  at 
Litchfield.  The  schools  for  young  ladies  in  both  of  those  towns  at  that 
time  were  celebrated  for  their  excellence,  and  that  in  New  Haven  parti 
cularly  comprehended  a  course  of  study  equal  in  range,  with  the  exception 
of  G-reek  and  the  higher  Mathematics,  to  the  course  pursued  at  the  same 
time  in  Yale  College.  Being  the  youngest  child  of  a  wealthy  and  retired 
merchant,  she  enjoyed  to  the  fullest  extent  the  opportunities  of  education 
which  these  seminaries  afforded,  as  well  as  that  more  general,  but  not  less 
important  element  of  education,  the  constant  intercourse  with  people  of 
refined  taste  and  cultivated  minds. 

In  1817,  she  was  married  to  Cornelius  Tuthill,  Esq.,  a  lawyer,  of  New- 
burgh,  New  York,  who,  after  his  marriage,  settled  in  New  Haven.  Mr. 
Tuthill  himself,  as  well  as  his  wife,  being  of  a  literary  turn,  their  hospi 
table  mansion  became  the  resort  for  quite  an  extensive  literary  circle,  some 
of  whom  have  since  become  known  to  fame.  Mr.  Tuthill,  with  two  of  his 
friends,  the  lamented  Henry  E.  Dwight,  youngest  son  of  President  Dwight 
of  Yale  College,  and  Nathaniel  Chauncey,  Esq.,  now  of  Philadelphia,  pro 
jected  a  literary  paper,  for  local  distribution,  called  "  The  Microscope." 
It  was  published  at  New  Haven,  and  edited  by  Mr.  Tuthill,  with  the  aid 
of  the  two  friends  just  named.  Through  the  pages  of  the  Microscope, 
the  poet  Percival  first  became  known  to  the  public.  Among  the  con- 

(100) 


LOUISA  C.    TUTHILL.  101 

V 

tributors  were  J.  C.   Brainerd,*  Professors  Fisher  and  Fowler,   Mrs. 
Sigourney,  and  others. 

Mrs.  Tuthill  wrote  rhymes  from  childhood,  and  as  far  back  as  she  can 
remember  was  devoted  to  books.  One  of  her  amusements  during  girl 
hood  was  to  write,  stealthily,  essays,  plays,  tales,  and  verses,  all  of  which, 
however,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  school  compositions,  were 
committed  to  the  flames  previous  to  her  marriage.  She  had  imbibed  a 
strong  prejudice  against  literary  women,  and  firmly  resolved  never  to 
become  one.  Mr.  Tuthill  took  a  different  view  of  the  matter,  and  urged 
her  to  a  further  pursuit  of  liberal  studies  and  the  continued  exercise  of 
her  pen.  At  his  solicitation,  she  wrote  regularly  for  the  "  Microscope" 
during  its  continuance,  which,  however,  was  only  for  a  couple  of  years. 

Mr.  Tuthill  died  in  1825,  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine,  leaving  a  widow 
and  four  children,  one  son  and  three  daughters.  As  a  solace  under 
affliction;  Mrs.  Tuthill  employed  her  pen  in  contributing  frequently  to 
literary  periodicals,  but  always  anonymously,  and  with  so  little  regard  to 
fame  of  authorship  as  to  keep  neither  record  nor  copy  of  her  pieces,  though 
some  of  them  now  occasionally  float  by  as  waifs  on  the  tide  of  current 
literature.  Several  little  books,  too,  were  written  by  her  between  1827 
and  1839,  for  the  pleasure  of  mental  occupation,  and  published  anony 
mously.  Some  of  these  still  hold  their  place  in  Sunday  school  libraries. 

Mrs.  Tuthill' s  name  first  came  before  the  public  in  1839.  It  was  on 
the  title-page  of  a  reading  book  for  young  ladies,  prepared  on  a  new  plan. 
The  plan  was  to  make  the  selections  a  series  of  illustrations  of  the  rules 
of  rhetoric,  the  examples  selected  being  taken  from  the  best  English  and 
American  authors.  The  "  Young  Ladies'  Reader,"  the  title  of  this  col 
lection,  has  been  popular,  and  has  gone  through  many  editions. 

The  ice  being  once  broken,  she  began  to  publish  more  freely,  and  during 
the  same  year  gave  to  the  world  the  work  entitled  "  The  Young  Lady's 
Home."  It  is  an  octavo  volume  of  tales  and  essays,  having  in  view  the 
completion  of  a  young  lady's  education  after  her  leaving  school.  It  shows 
at  once  a  fertile  imagination  and  varied  reading,  sound  judgment,  and  a 
familiar  acquaintance  with  social  life.  It  has  be^n  frequently  reprinted. 

Her  next  publication  was  an  admirable  series  of  small  volumes  for  boys 
and  girls,  which  have  been,  of  all  her  writings,  the  most  widely  and  the 
most  favourably  known.  They  are  16mo.'s,  of  about  150  pages  each. 
"  I  will  be  a  Gentleman,"  1844,  twenty  editions ;  "  I  will  be  a  Lady," 
1844,  twenty  editions;  "Onward,  right  Onward,"  1845,  ten  editions; 
"Boarding  School  Girl,"  1845,  six  editions;  "Anything  for  Sport," 
1846,  eight  editions;  "A  Strike  for  Freedom,  or,  Law  and  Order," 
1850,  three  editions  in  the  first  year. 

Had  Mrs.  Tuthill  written  nothing  but  these  attractive  and  useful 
volumes,  she  would  have  entitled  herself  to  an  honourable  place  in  any 

*  See  Whittier's  Life  of  J.  C.  Brainerd. 


102  LOUISA   C.    TUTHILL. 

work  which  professed  to  treat  of  the  prose  literature  of  the  country.  They 
have  the  graces  of  style  and  thought  which  would  commend  them  to  the 
favourable  consideration  of  the  general  reader,  with  superadded  charms 
that  make  them  the  delight  of  children.  During  the  composition  of  these 
juvenile  works,  she  continued  her  occupation  of  catering  for  "  children  of 
a  larger  growth,"  and  gave  to  the  world,  in  1846,  a  work  of  fiction,  entitled 
"  My  Wife,"  a  tale  of  fashionable  life  of  the  present  day,  conveying,  under 
the  garb  of  an  agreeable  story,  wholesome  counsels  for  the  young  of  both 
sexes  on  the  all-engrossing  subject  of  marriage. 

A  love  for  the  fine  arts  has  been  with  Mrs.  Tuthill  one  of  the  ruling 
passions  of  her  life.  At  different  times,  ample  means  have  been  within 
her  reach  for  the  cultivation  of  this  class  of  studies.  Partly  for  her  own 
amusement,  and  partly  for  the  instruction  of  her  children,  she  paid  special 
attention  to  the  study  of  Architecture  in  its  sesthetical  character,  enjoying, 
while  thus  engaged,  the  free  use  of  the  princely  library  of  Ithiel  Town, 
the  architect.  The  result  of  these  studies  was  the  publication,  in  1848, 
of  a  splendid  octavo  volume  on  the  "  History  of  Architecture,"  from  which 
an  extract  is  given.  She  edited,  during  the  same  year,  a  very  elegant 
octavo  annual,  "  The  Mirror  of  Life,"  in  which  several  of  the  contributions 
were  by  herself. 

"The  Nursery  Book"  appeared  in  1849.  It  is  not  a  collection  of 
nursery  rhymes  for  children,  as  the  title  has  led  many  to  suppose,  but  a 
collection  of  counsels  for  young  mothers  respecting  the  duties  of  the 
nursery.  These  counsels  are  conveyed  under  the  fiction  of  an  imaginary 
correspondence  between  a  young  mother,  just  beginning  to  dress  her  first 
baby,  and  an  experienced  aunt.  There  are  few  topics  in  the  whole  history 
of  the  management  and  the  mismanagement  of  a  child,  during  the  first 
and  most  important  stages  of  its  existence,  that  are  not  discussed,  with 
alternate  reason  and  ridicule,  in  this  clever  volume. 

Mrs.  Tuthill  is  at  present  engaged  upon  a  series  of  works,  of  an  unam 
bitious  but  very  useful  character,  grouped  together  under  the  general  title 
of  "  Success  in  Life."  They  are  six  volumes,  ISmo.'s,  of  about  200  pages 
each,  and  each  illustrating  the  method  of  success  in  some  particular  walk 
in  life,  by  numerous  biographical  examples.  The  titles  of  the  several 
volumes  are:  "The  Merchant,"  1849;  "The  Lawyer,"  1850;  "The 
Mechanic."  1850 ;  "  The  Artist,"  "  The  Farmer,"  and  "  The  Physician," 
not  yet  published. 

Mrs.  Tuthill  removed  to  Hartford  in  1839,  to  be  with  her  son,  then 
studying  law  with  Governor  Ellsworth;  in  1843,  to  Roxbury,  near 
Boston,  Massachusetts;  in  1847,  to  Philadelphia;  and  at  present,  1851, 
is  established  at  Princeton,  New  Jersey. 


LOUISA    C.    TUTHILL.  103 

DOMESTIC  ARCHITECTURE  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

DOMESTIC  architecture  in  this  country  must  be  adapted  to  the 
circumstances  and  condition  of  the  people.  As  it  is  an  art  origi 
nating  from  necessity,  the  progress  of  society  must  change  the 
architecture  of  every  country,  from  age  to  age.  As  wealth  and 
refinement  increase,  taste  and  elegance  must  be  consulted,  without 
destroying  convenience  and  appropriateness.  We  can  no  more 
adopt  the  style  of  architecture  than  the  dress  of  a  foreign  people. 
We  acknowledge  the  flowing  robes  of  the  Persian  to  be  graceful  and 
becoming ;  they  suit  the  habits  and  climate  of  the  country.  The 
fur-clad  Russian  of  the  north  has  conformed  his  dress  to  his  climate, 
and  made  it  rich  and  elegant ;  yet,  as  he  approaches  his  neighbours 
of  Turkey,  his  dress  becomes  somewhat  assimilated  to  theirs. 
France  is  said  to  give  the  law  of  fashion  in  dress  to  the  civilized 
world ;  and  the  absurdities  that  have  resulted  from  following  her 
dictates,  have  produced  ridiculous  anomalies  in  other  countries. 

In  adopting  the  domestic  architecture  of  foreign  countries,  we 
may  be  equally  ridiculous.  England,  our  fatherland,  from  some 
resemblance  in  habits  and  institutions,  might  furnish  more  suitable 
models  for  imitation  than  any  other  country ;  yet  they  would  not 
be  perfectly  in  accordance  with  our  wants.  Our  architecture  must, 
therefore,  be  partly  indigenous. 

Our  associations  of  convenience,  home-comfort,  and  respectability 
are  connected  with  a  certain  style  of  building,  which  has  been 
evolved  by  the  wants,  manners,  and  customs  of  the  people.  Any 
great  deviations  from  a  style  that  has  been  thus  fixed,  cannot  be 
perfectly  agreeable.  We  must  improve  upon  this  style,  so  that 
domestic  architecture  may  in  time  be  perfectly  American. 

Man  in  his  hours  of  relaxation,  when  he  is  engaged  in  the  pur 
suit  of  mere  pleasure,  is  less  national  than  he  is  under  the  influence 
of  any  of  the  more  violent  feelings  that  agitate  every-day  life. 

Hence  it  is  that  in  our  country  there  is  danger  that  our  villas 
will  be  anything  rather  than  national.  The  retired  professional 
man,  the  wealthy  merchant  and  mechanic,  wish  to  build  in  the 
country.  Instead  of  consulting  home-comfort  and  pleasurable  asso- 


104  LOUISA   C.   TUTHILL. 

elation,  they  select  some  Italian  villa,  Elizabethan  house,  or  Swiss 
cottage,  as  their  model.  Ten  chances  to  one  the  Italian  villa, 
designed  for  the  border  of  a  lake,  will  be  placed  near  a  dusty  high 
road  ;  the  Elizabethan  house,  instead  of  being  surrounded  by  vene 
rable  trees,  will  raise  its  high  gables  on  the  top  of  a  bare  hill ;  and 
the  Swiss  cottage,  instead  of  hanging  upon  the  mountain-side,  will 
be  placed  upon  a  level  plain,  surrounded  with  a  flower-garden, 
divided  into  all  manner  of  fantastic  parterres,  with  box  edgings. 

Our  country,  containing  as  it  does,  in  its  wide  extent,  hills  and 
mountains,  sheltered  dells  and  far-spreading  valleys,  lake-sides  and 
river-sides,  affords  every  possible  situation  for  picturesque  villas ; 
and  great  care  should  be  taken  that  appropriate  sites  be  chosen  for 
appropriate  and  comfortable  buildings;  comfortable,  we  say,  for 
after  the  novelty  of  the  exterior  has  pleased  the  eye  of  the  owner 
for  a  few  weeks,  if  his  house  wants  that  half-homely,  but  wholly 
indispensable  attribute,  comfort,  he  had  better  leave  it  to  ornament 
his  grounds,  like  an  artificial  ruin,  and  build  himself  another  to  live 
in.  Cottages  are  at  present  quite  "  the  rage"  in  many  parts  of  the 
United  States.  Some  outre*  enormities  are  styled  Swiss  cottages. 

The  larger  and  better  kind  of  Swiss  cottages  are  built  with  roofs 
projecting  from  five  to  seven  feet  over  the  sides ;  these  projections 
are  strengthened  by  strong  wooden  supports,  that  the  heavy  snow 
which  falls  upon  the  roofs  need  not  crush  them.  Utility  and 
beauty  are  thus  combined ;  but  there  is  no  beauty  in  such  a  cottage 
in  a  sunny  vale,  where  the  snow  falls  seldom  or  lightly.  On  the 
Green  Mountains,  or  among  the  White  Hills,  it  might  stand  as 
gracefully  as  it  does  among  its  native  Alps.  Walnut  and  chestnut 
trees  are  always  beautiful  accompaniments  to  the  Swiss  cottage. 

The  same  care  should  be  taken  to  render  the  cottage  comfortable, 
as  the  villa ;  and  in  this  point,  unfortunately,  there  is  often  a  com 
plete  failure.  There  is  no  absolute  need  that  this  should  be  the 
case.  A  cottage  or  a  farm-house  may  be  picturesque  without  sacri 
ficing  one  tittle  of  its  convenience.  The  great  and  leading  object 
should  be  utility,  and  where  that  is  absolutely  sacrificed  in  archi 
tecture,  whatever  may  be  substituted  in  its  place,  it  cannot  be  con 
sidered  beautiful. 


106  CAROLINE    M.    KIRKLAND. 

among  the  dreamy  fantasies  of  the  great  idealist,  as  she  had  been  among 
the  log  cabins  of  the  far  west. 

In  July,  1847,  the  "  Union  Magazine"  was  commenced  in  New  York 
under  her  auspices  as  sole  editor.  After  a  period  of  eighteen  months,  the 
proprietorship  of  the  Magazine  changed  hands,  its  place  of  publication 
was  transferred  to  Philadelphia,  and  its  name  changed  to  "Sartain's 
Union  Magazine."  Under  the  new  arrangement,  Mrs.  Kirkland  remained 
as  associate  editor,  her  duties  being  limited,  however,  almost  entirely  to  a 
monthly  contribution.  This  arrangement  continued  until  July,  1851. 
Her  whole  connexion  with  the  Magazine  runs  through  a  course  of  four 
years,  and  much  of  the  marked  success  of  that  periodical  is  due  to  the 
character  of  her  articles.  Having  been  myself  the  resident  editor  of  the 
Magazine  during  the  last  two  and  a  half  years  of  that  time,  and  conducted 
its  entire  literary  correspondence,  I  suppose  I  have  the  means  of  speaking 
with  some  confidence  on  this  point,  and  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying, 
that  of  all  its  brilliant  array  of  contributors,  there  was  not  one  whose  arti 
cles  gave  such  entire  and  uniform  satisfaction  as  those  of  Mrs.  Kirkland. 
During  her  first  visit  to  Europe,  she  wrote  incidents  and  observations  of 
travel,  which  were  published,  first  in  the  Magazine,  and  afterwards  in  book 
form,  under  the  title  of  "  Holidays  Abroad ;  or,  Europe  from  the  West," 
in  two  volumes,  1849.  Excepting  these,  and  one  or  two  stories,  her  con 
tributions  have  been  in  the  shape  of  essays,  and  they  form,  in  my  opinion, 
her  strongest  claim  to  distinction  as  a  writer. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  VISITING. 

THERE  is  something  wonderfully  primitive  and  simple  in  the 
fundamental  idea  of  visiting.  You  leave  your  own  place  and  your 
chosen  employments,  your  slipshod  ease  and  privileged  plainness, 
and  sally  forth,  in  special  trim,  with  your  mind  emptied,  as  far  as 
possible,  of  whatever  has  been  engrossing  it,  to  make  a  descent  upon 
the  domicile  of  another,  under  the  idea  that  your  presence  will  give 
him  pleasure,  and,  remotely,  yourself.  Can  anything  denote  more 
amiable  simplicity  ?  or,  according  to  a  certain  favourite  vocabulary, 
can  anything  be  more  intensely  green  ?  What  a  confession  of  the 
need  of  human  sympathy  !  What  lonJiommie  in  the  conviction 
that  you  will  be  welcome!  What  reckless  self-committal  in  the 
whole  affair !  Let  no  one  say  this  is  not  a  good-natured  world, 
since  it  still  keeps  up  a  reverence  for  the  fossil  remains  of  what 
was  once  the  heart  of  its  oyster. 


CAROLINE    M.    KIRKLAND.  107 

Not  to  go  back  to  the  creation  (some  proof  of  self-denial,  in  these 
clays  of  research),  what  occasioned  the  first  visit,  probably  ?  Was 
it  the  birth  of  a  baby,  or  a  wish  to  borrow  somewhat  for  the  simple 
householdry,  or  a  cause  of  complaint  about  some  rural  trespass ;  a 
desire  to  share  superabundant  grapes  with  a  neighbour  who 
abounded  more  in  pomegranates ;  a  twilight  fancy  for  gossip  about 
a  stray  kid,  or  a  wound  from  "the  blind  boy's  butt-shaft?"  Was 
the  delight  of  visiting,  like  the  succulence  of  roast  pig,  discovered 
by  chance ;  or  was  it,  like  the  talk  which  is  its  essence,  an  instinct  ? 
This  last  we  particularly  doubt,  from  present  manifestations.  In 
stincts  do  not  wear  out ;  they  are  as  fresh  as  in  the  days  when 
visiting  began — but  where  is  visiting  ? 

A  curious  semblance  of  the  old  rite  now  serves  us,  a  mere 
Duessa — a  form  of  snow,,  impudently  pretending  to  vitality.  We 
are  put  off  with  this  congelation,  a  compound  of  formality,  dissimu 
lation,  weariness,  and  vanity,  which  it  is  not  easy  to  subject  to  any 
test  without  resolving  it  at  once  into  its  unwholesome  elements. 
Yet  why  must  it  be  so  ?  Would  it  require  daring  equal  to  that 
which  dashed  into  the  enchanted  wood  of  Ismena,  or  that  which 
exterminated  the  Mamelukes,  to  fall  back  upon  first  principles,  and 
let  inclination  have  something  to  do  with  offering  and  returning 
visits  ? 

A  coat  of  mail  is,  strangely  enough,  the  first  requisite  when  we 
have  a  round  of  calls  to  make ;  not  the  "silver  arms"  of  fair  Clo- 
rinda,  but  the  unlovely,  oyster-like  coat  of  Pride,  the  helmet  of 
Indifference,  the  breastplate  of  Distrust,  the  barred  visor  of  Self- 
Esteem,  the  shield  of  "gentle  Dulness;"  while  over  all  floats  the 
gaudy,  tinsel  scarf  of  Fashion.  Whatever  else  be  present  or  lack 
ing,  Pride,  defensive,  if  not  offensive,  must  clothe  us  all  over.  The 
eyes  must  be  guarded,  lest  they  mete  out  too  much  consideration 
to  those  who  bear  no  stamp.  The  neck  must  be  stiffened,  lest  it 
bend  beyond  the  haughty  angle  of  self-reservation  in  the  acknow 
ledgment  of  civilities.  The  mouth  is  bound  to  keep  its  portcullis 
ever  ready  to  fall  on  a  word  which  implies  unaffected  pleasure  or 
surprise.  Each  motion  must  have  its  motive ;  every  civility  its 
well-weighed  return  in  prospect.  Subjects  of  conversation  must 


108  CAROLINE   M.   KIRKLAND. 

be  any  but  those  which  naturally  present  themselves  to  the  mind. 
If  a  certain  round  is  not  prescribed,  we  feel  that  all  beyond  it  is 
proscribed.  0,  the  unutterable  weariness  of  this  worse  than  dumb- 
show  !  No  wonder  we  groan  in  spirit  when  there  are  visits  to  be 
made ! 

But  some  fair,  innocent  face  looks  up  at  us,  out  of  a  forest  home, 
perhaps,  or  in  a  wide,  unneighboured  prairie, — and  asks  what  all 
this  means  ?  "Is  not  a  visit  always  a  delightful  thing — full  of  good 
feeling — the  cheerer  of  solitude — the  lightener  of  labour — the  healer 
of  differences — the  antidote  of  life's  bitterness  ?"  Ah,  primitive 
child  !  it  is  so,  indeed,  to  you.  The  thought  of  a  visit  makes  your 
dear  little  heart  beat.  If  one  is  offered,  or  expected  at  your 
father's,  with  what  cheerful  readiness  do  you  lend  your  aid  to  the 
preparations  !  How  your  winged  feet  skim  along  the  floor,  or  sur 
mount  the  stairs ;  your  brain  full  of  ingenious  devices  and  substi 
tutes,  your  slender  fingers  loaded  with  plates  and  glasses,  and  a 
tidy  apron  depending  from  your  taper  waist !  Thoughts  of  dress 
give  you  but  little  trouble,  for  your  choice  is  limited  to  the  pink 
ribbon  and  the  blue  one ;  what  the  company  will  wear  is  of  still 
less  moment,  so  they  only  come  !  It  would  be  hard  to  make  you 
believe  that  we  invite  people  and  then  hope  they  will  not  come  !  If 
you  omit  anybody,  it  will  be  the  friend  who  possesses  too  many  acres, 
or  he  who  has  been  sent  to  the  legislature  from  your  district,  lest 
dignity  should  interfere  with  pleasure ;  we,  on  the  contrary,  think 
first  of  the  magnates,  even  though  we  know  that  the  gloom  of  their 
grandeur  will  overshadow  the  mirth  of  -everybody  else,  and  prove 
a  wet  blanket  to  the  social  fire.  You  will,  perhaps,  be  surprised  to 
learn  that  we  keep  a  debtor  and  creditor  account  of  visits,  and  talk 
of  owing  a  call,  or  owing  an  invitation,  as  your  father  does  of  owing 
a  hundred  dollars  at  the  store,  for  value  received.  When  we  have 
made  a  visit  and  are  about  departing,  we  invite  a  return,  in  the 
choicest  terms  of  affectionate,  or,  at  least,  cordial  interest ;  but  if 
our  friend  is  new  enough  to  take  us  at  our  word,  and  pay  the  debt 
too  soon,  we  complain,  and  say,  "  Oh  dear !  there's  another  call  to 
make!" 

A  hint  has  already  been  dropt  as  to  the  grudging  spirit  of  the 


CAROLINE    M.    KIRKLAND.  109 

thing,  how  we  give  as  little  as  we  can,  and  get  all  possible  credit 
for  it ;  and  this  is  the  way  we  do  it.  Having  let  the  accounts 
against  us  become  as  numerous  as  is  prudent,  we  draw  up  a  list  of 
our  creditors,  carefully  districted  as  to  residences,  so  as  not  to 
make  more  cross-journeys  than  are  necessary  in  going  the  rounds. 
Then  we  array  ourselves  with  all  suitable  splendour  (this  is  a  main 
point,  and  we  often  defer  a  call  upon  dear  friends  for  weeks,  wait 
ing  till  the  arrivals  from  Paris  shall  allow  us  to  endue  a  new  bon 
net  or  mantilla),  and,  getting  into  a  carriage,  card-case  in  hand, 
give  our  list,  corrected  more  anxiously  than  a  price-current,  into 
the  keeping  of  the  coachman,  with  directions  to  drive  as  fast  as 
dignity  will  allow,  in  order  that  we  may  do  as  much  execution  as 
possible  with  the  stone  thus  carefully  smoothed.  Arrived  at  the 
first  house  (which  is  always  the  one  farthest  off,  for  economy  of 
time),  we  stop — the  servant  inquires  for  the  lady  for  whom  our 
civility  is  intended,  while  we  take  out  a  card  and  hold  it  prominent 
on  the  carriage  door,  that  not  a  moment  may  be  lost  in  case  a  card 
is  needed.  "  Not  at  home  ?"  Ah  then,  with  what  pleased  alacrity 
we  commit  the  scrap  of  pasteboard  to  John,  after  having  turned 
down  a  corner  for  each  lady,  if  there  are  several,  in  this  kind  and 
propitious  house.  But  if  the  answer  is  "  At  home,"  all  wears  a 
different  aspect.  The  card  slips  sadly  back  again  into  its  silver 
citadel;  we  sigh,  and  say  "  Oh  dear  !",  if  nothing  worse — and  then, 
alighting  with  measured  step,  enter  the  drawing-room  all  smiles, 
and  with  polite  words  ready  on  our  lips.  Ten  minutes  of  the 
weather — the  walking — the  opera — family  illnesses — on-dits,  and  a 
little  spice  of  scandal,  or  at  least  a  shrug  and  a  meaning  look  or 
two — and  the  duty  is  done.  We  enter  the  carriage  again — urge 
the  coachman  to  new  speed,  and  go  through  the  same  ceremonies, 
hopes,  regrets,  and  tittle-tattle,  till  dinner  time,  and  then  bless  our 
stars  that  we  have  been  able  to  make  twenty  calls — "  so  many  peo 
ple  were  out." 

But  this  is  only  one  side  of  the  question.  How  is  it  with  us 
when  we  receive  visits  ?  We  enter  here  upon  a  deep  mystery. 
Dear  simple  child  of  the  woods  and  fields,  did  you  ever  hear  of 
reception-days  ?  If  not,  let  us  enlighten  you  a  little. 


110  CAROLINE   M.    KIRKLAND. 

The  original  idea  of  a  reception-day  is  a  charmingly  social  and 
friendly  one.  It  is  that  the  many  engagements  of  city  life,  and 
the  distances  which  must  be  traversed  in  order  to  visit  several 
friends  in  one  day,  make  it  peculiarly  desirable  to  know  when  we 
are  sure  to  find  each  at  home.  It  may  seem  strange  that  this  idea 
should  have  occurred  to  people  who  are  confessedly  glad  of  the 
opportunity  to  leave  a  card,  because  it  allows  them  time  to  despatch 
a  greater  number  of  visits  at  one  round ;  but  so  it  is.  The  very 
enormity  of  our  practice  sometimes  leads  to  spasmodic  efforts  at 
reform.  Appointing  a  reception-day  is,  therefore,  or,  rather,  we 
should  say,  was  intended  to  make  morning-calls  something  besides 
a  mere  form.  To  say  you  will  always  be  at  home  on  such  a  day, 
is  to  insure  to  your  friends  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you ;  and  what 
a  charming  conversational  circle  might  thus  be  gathered,  without 
ceremony  or  restraint ! 

No  wonder  the  fashion  took  at  once.  But  what  has  fashion 
made  of  this  plan,  so  simple,  so  rational,  so  in  accordance  with  the 
best  uses  of  visiting?  Something  as  vapid  and  senseless  as  a 
court  drawing-room,  or  the  eternal  bowings  and  compliments  of 
the  Chinese !  You,  artless  blossom  of  the  prairies,  or  belle  of 
some  rural  city  a  thousand  miles  inland,  should  thank  us  for  put 
ting  you  on  your  guard  against  Utopian  constructions  of  our  social 
canons.  When  you  come  to  town  with  your  good  father,  and  find 
that  the  lady  of  one  of  his  city  correspondents  sets  apart  one  morn 
ing  of  every  week  for  the  reception  of  her  friends,  do  not  imagine 
her  to  be  necessarily  a  "good  soul,"  who  hates  to  disappoint  those 
who  call  on  her,  and  therefore  simply  omits  going  out  on  that  day 
lest  she  should  miss  them.  You  will  find  her  enshrined  in  all  that 
is  grand  and  costly ;  her  door  guarded  by  servants,  whose  formal 
ushering  will  kill  within  you  all  hope  of  unaffected  and  kindly  inter 
course  ;  her  parlours  glittering  with  all  she  can  possibly  accumu 
late  that  is  recherche  (that  is  a  favourite  word  of  hers),  and  her  own 
person  arrayed  with  all  the  solicitude  of  splendour  that  morning 
dress  allows,  and  sometimes  something  more.  She  will  receive  you 
with  practised  grace,  and  beg  you  to  be  seated,  perhaps  seat  her 
self  by  you  and  inquire  after  your  health.  Then  a  tall,  grave  ser- 


CAROLINE   M.  KIRKLAND.  Ill 

vant  will  hand  you,  on  a  silver  salver,  a  cup  of  chocolate,  or  some 
other  permissible  refreshment,  while  your  hostess  glides  over  the 
carpet  to  show  to  a  new  guest  or  group  the  identical  civilities  of 
which  you  have  just  had  the  benefit.  A  lady  sits  at  your  right 
hand,  as  silent  as  yourself ;  but  you  must  neither  hope  for  an  intro 
duction,  nor  dare  to  address  her  without  one,  since  both  these  things 
are  forbidden  by  our  code.  Another  sits  at  your  left,  looking  wist 
fully  at  the  fire,  or  at  the  stand  of  greenhouse  plants,  or,  still  more 
likely,  at  the  splendid  French  clock,  but  not  speaking  a  word ;  for 
she,  too,  has  not  the  happiness  of  knowing  anybody  who  chances 
to  sit  near  her. 

Presently  she  rises  ;  the  hostess  hastens  towards  her,  presses  her 
hand  with  great  affection,  and  begs  to  see  her  often.  She  falls  into 
the  custody  of  the  footman  at  the  parlour  door,  is  by  him  committed 
to  his  double  at  the  hall  door,  and  then  trips  lightly  down  the  steps 
to  her  carriage,  to  enact  the  same  farce  at  the  next  house  where 
there  may  be  a  reception  on  the  same  day.  You  look  at  the  clock, 
too,  rise — are  smiled  upon,  and  begged  to  come  again ;  and,  passing 
through  the  same  tunnel  of  footmen,  reach  the  door  and  the  street, 
with  time  and  opportunity  to  muse  on  the  mystery  of  visiting. 

Now  you  are  not  to  go  away  with  the  idea  that  those  who  reduce 
visiting  to  this  frigid  system,  are,  of  necessity,  heartless  people. 
That  would  be  very  unjust.  They  are  often  people  of  very  good 
hearts  indeed ;  but  they  have  somehow  allowed  their  notions  of 
social  intercourse  to  become  sophisticated,  so  that  visiting  has 
ceased  with  them  to  be  even  a  symbol  of  friendly  feeling,  and  they 
look  upon  it  as  merely  a  mode  of  exhibiting  wealth,  style,  and 
desirable  acquaintances  ;  an  assertion,  as  it  were,  of  social  position. 
Then  they  will  tell  you  of  the  great  "  waste  of  time"  incurred  by 
the  old  system  of  receiving  morning  calls,  and  how  much  better  it 
is  to  give  up  one  day  to  it  than  every  day ;  though,  by  the  way, 
they  never  did  scruple  to  be  "  engaged"  or  "  out"  when  visits  were 
not  desirable.  Another  thing  is — but  this,  perhaps,  they  will  not 
tell  you, — that  the  present  is  an  excellent  way  of  refining  one's 
circle ;  for,  as  the  footman  has  strict  orders  not  to  admit  any  one, 
or  even  receive  a  card,  on  other  than  the  regular  days,  all  those 


112  CAROLINE    M.    KIRKLAND. 

who  are  enough  behind  the  age  not  to  be  aware  of  this,  are  gradu 
ally  dropt,  their  visits  passing  for  nothing,  and  remaining  unre- 
turned.  So  fades  away  the  momentary  dream  of  sociability  with 
which  some  simple-hearted  people  pleased  themselves  when  they 
heard  of  reception-days. 

But  morning  calls  are  not  the  only  form  of  our  social  intercourse. 
We  do  not  forget  the  claims  of  "peaceful  evening."  You  have 
read  Cowper,  my  dear  young  friend  ? 

"  Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steaming  column,  and  the  cups 
That  cheer,  but  not  inebriate,"  etc.,  etc. 

And  you  have  been  at  tea-parties,  too,  where,  besides  the  excel 
lent  tea  and  coffee  and  cake  and  warm  biscuits  and  sliced  tongue, 
there  was  wealth  of  good-humoured  chat,  and,  if  not  wit,  plenty  of 
laughter,  as  the  hours  wore  on  towards  ten  o'clock,  when  cloaks  and 
hoods  were  brought,  and  the  gentlemen  asked  to  be  allowed  to  see 
the  ladies  home,  and,  after  a  brisk  walk,  everybody  was  in  bed  at 
eleven  o'clock,  and  felt  not  the  worse  but  the  better  next  morning. 
Well !  we  have  evening  parties,  too  !  A  little  different,  however. 

The  simple  people  among  whom  you  have  been  living  really 
enjoyed  these  parties.  Those  who  gave  them,  and  those  who  went 
to  them,  had  social  pleasure  as  their  object.  The  little  bustle,  or, 
perhaps,  labour  of  preparation  was  just  enough  to  mark  the  occa 
sion  pleasantly.  People  came  together  in  good  humour  with  them 
selves  and  with  each  other.  There  may  have  been  some  little 
scandal  talked  over  the  tea  when  it  was  too  strong — but,  on  the 
whole,  there  was  a  friendly  result,  and  everybody  concerned  would 
have  felt  it  a  loss  to  be  deprived  of  such  meetings.  The  very  bor 
rowings  of  certain  articles  of  which  no  ordinary,  moderate  house 
hold  is  expected  to  have  enough  for  extraordinary  occasions,  pro 
moted  good  neighbourhood  and  sociability,  and  the  deficiencies 
sometimes  observable,  were  in  some  sense  an  antidote  to  pride. 

Now  all  this  sounds  like  a  sentimental,  Utopian,  if  not  shabby 


CAROLINE   M.    KIRKLAND.  113 

romance  to  us,  so  far  have  we  departed  from  such  primitiveness. 
To  begin,  we  all  say  we  hate  parties.  When  we  go  to  them  we  groan 
and  declare  them  stupid,  and  when  we  give  them  we  say  still  worse 
things.  When  we  are  about  to  give,  there  is  a  close  calculation 
either  as  to  the  cheapest  way,  or  as  to  the  most  recherche,  without 
regard  to  expense.  Of  course  these  two  views  apply  to  different 
extent  of  means,  and  the  former  is  the  more  frequent.  Where 
money  is  no  object,  the  anxiety  is  to  do  something  that  nobody 
else  can  do ;  whether  in  splendour  of  decorations  or  costliness  of 
supper.  If  Mrs.  A.  had  a  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  flowers  in  her 
rooms,  Mrs.  B.  will  strain  every  nerve  to  have  twice  or  three  times 
as  many,  though  all  the  greenhouses  within  ten  miles  of  the  city 
must  be  stripped  to  obtain  them.  If  Mrs.  C.  bought  all  the  game 
in  market  for  her  supper,  Mrs.  D.'s  anxiety  is  to  send  to  the  prairies 
for  hers, — and  so  in  other  matters.  Mrs.  E.  had  the  prima  donna 
to  sing  at  her  soiree,  and  Mrs.  F.  at  once  engages  the  whole  opera 
troupe.  This  is  the  principle,  and  its  manifestations  are  infinite. 

But,  perhaps,  these  freaks  are  characteristic  of  circles  into  which 
wondering  eyes  like  yours  are  never  likely  to  penetrate.  So  we  will 
say  something  of  the  other  classes  of  party-givers,  those  who  feel 
themselves  under  a  sort  of  necessity  to  invite  a  great  many  people 
for  whom  they  care  nothing,  merely  because  these  people  have 
before  invited  them.  Obligations  of  this  sort  are  of  so  exceedingly 
complicated  a  character,  that  none  but  a  metaphysician  could  be 
expected  fully  to  unravel  them.  The  idea  of  paying  one  invitation 
by  another  is  the  main  one,  and  whether  the  invited  choose  to  come 
or  not,  is  very  little  to  the  purpose.  The  invitation  discharges  the 
debt,  and  places  the  party-giver  in  the  position  of  creditor,  necessi 
tating,  of  course,  another  party,  and  so  on,  in  endless  series. 

It  is  to  be  observed  in  passing,  that  both  debtor  and  creditor  in 
this  shifting-scale  believe  themselves  "  discharging  a  duty  they  owe 
society."  This  is  another  opportunity  of  getting  rid  of  undesirable 
acquaintances,  since  to  leave  one  to  whom  we  "owe"  an  invitation 
out  of  a  general  party,  is  equivalent  to  a  final  dismissal.  This 
being  the  case,  it  is,  of  course,  highly  necessary  to  see  that  every 
body  is  asked  that  ought  to  be  asked,  and  only  those  omitted  whom 

15 


114  CAROLINEM.    KIRKLAND. 

it  is  desirable  to  ignore,  and  for  this  purpose,  every  lady  must  keep 
a  "visiting  list."  It 'is  on  these  occasions  that  we  take  care  to 
invite  our  country  friends,  especially  if  we  have  stayed  a  few  weeks 
at  their  houses  during  the  preceding  summer. 

The  next  question  is  as  to  the  entertainment ;  and  this  would  be 
a  still  more  anxious  affair  than  it  is,  if  its  form  and  extent  were  not 
in  good  measure  prescribed  by  fashion.  There  are  certainly  must- 
haves,  and  may-haves,  here  as  elsewhere ;  but  the  liberty  of  choice 
is  not  very  extensive.  If  you  do  not  provide  the  must-haves  you 
are  "mean,"  of  course;  but  it  is  only  by  adding  the  may-haves 
that  you  can  hope  to  be  elegant.  The  cost  may  seem  formidable, 
perhaps ;  but  it  has  been  made  matter  of  accurate  computation, 
that  one  large  party,  even  though  it  be  a  handsome  one,  costs  less 
in  the  end  than  the  habit  of  hospitality  for  which  it  is  the  substi 
tute,  so  it  is  not  worth  while  to  flinch.  We  must  do  our  "  duty  to 
society,"  and  this  is  the  cheapest  way. 

Do  you  ask  me  if  there  are  among  us  no  old-fashioned  people, 
who  continue  to  invite  their  friends  because  they  love  them  and 
wish  to  see  them,  offering  only  such  moderate  entertainment  as 
may  serve  to  promote  social  feeling  ?  Yes,  indeed  !  there  are  even 
some  who  will  ask  you  to  dine,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  your  com 
pany,  and  with  no  intention  to  astonish  you  or  excite  your  envy ! 
We  boast  that  it  was  a  lady  of  our  city,  who  declined  giving  a  large 
party  to  "return  invitations,"  saying  she  did  not  wish  "to  exhaust, 
in  the  prodigality  of  a  night,  the  hospitality  of  a  year."  Ten  such 
could  be  found  among  us,  we  may  hope ;  leaven  enough,  perhaps, 
to  work  out,  in  time,  a  change  for  the  better  in  our  social  plan. 
Conversation  is  by  no  means  despised,  in  some  circles,  even  though 
it  turn  on  subjects  of  moral  or  literary  interest,  and  parlour  music, 
which  aims  at  no  eclat,  is  to  be  heard  sometimes  among  people  who 
could  afford  to  hire  opera  singers. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  wholesale  method  of  "  doing  up" 
our  social  obligations  is  a  convenient  one  on  some  accounts.  It 
prevents  jealousy  by  placing  all  alike  on  a  footing  of  perfect  indif 
ference.  The  apportionment  of  civilities  is  a  very  delicate  matter. 
Really,  in  some  cases,  it  is  walking  among  eggs  to  invite  only  a 


CAROLINE    M.    KIRKLAND.  115 

few  of  your  friends  at  a  time.  If  you  choose  them  as  being 
acquainted  with  each  other,  somebody  will  be  offended  at  being 
included  or  excluded.  If  intellectual  sympathy  be  your  touch 
stone,  for  every  one  gratified  there  will  be  two  miffed,  and  so  on 
with  all  other  classifications.  Attempts  have  been  made  to  obviate 
this  difficulty.  One  lady  proposed  to  consider  as  congenial  all 
those  who  keep  carriages,  but  the  circle  proved  so  very  dull,  that 
she  was  obliged  to  exert  her  ingenuity  for  another  common  quality 
by  which  to  arrange  her  soirees.  Another  tried  the  expedient  of 
inviting  her  fashionable  friends  at  one  time,  her  husband's  political 
friends  at  another,  and  the  religious  friends,  whom  both  were 
desirous  to  propitiate,  at  another ;  but  her  task  was  as  perplexing 
as  that  of  the  man  who  had  the  fox,  the  goose,  and  the  bag  of  oats 
to  ferry  over  the  river  in  a  boat  that  would  hold  but  one  of  them 
at  a  time.  So  large  parties  have  it ;  and  in  the  murky  shadow 
of  this  simulacrum  of  sociability  we  are  likely  to  freeze  for  some 
time  to  come ;  certainly  until  all  purely  mercantile  calculation  is 
banished  from  our  civilities. 

It  is  with  visiting  as  with  travelling ;  those  who  would  make  the 
most  of  either  must  begin  by  learning  to  renounce.  We  cannot  do 
everything ;  and  to  enjoy  our  friends  we  must  curtail  our  acquaint 
ances.  "When  we  would  kindle  a  fire,  we  do  not  begin  by  scatter 
ing  the  coals  in  every  direction ;  so  neither  should  we  attempt  to 
promote  social  feeling  by  making  formal  calls  once  or  twice  a  year. 
If  we  give  offence,  so  be  it ;  it  shows  that  there  was  nothing  to  lose. 
If  we  find  ourselves  left  out  of  what  is  called  fashionable  society, 
let  us  bless  our  stars,  and  devote  the  time  thus  saved  to  something 
that  we  really  like.  What  a  gain  there  would  be  if  anything  drove 
us  to  living  for  ourselves  and  not  for  other  people ;  for  our  friends, 
rather  than  for  a  world,  which,  after  all  our  sacrifices,  cares  not  a 
pin  about  us ! 


LYDIA  M.  CHILD. 


THE  maiden  name  of  this  accomplished  writer  was  Lydia  Maria  Francis. 
She  is  a  native  of  Massachusetts,  and  a  sister  of  the  Rev.  Conyers  Francis, 
D.  D.,  of  Harvard  University. 

Mrs.  Child  commenced  authorship  as  early  as  1824.  Her  first  produc 
tion  was  "  Hobomok."  It  was  a  novel  based  upon  New  England  colonial 
traditions,  and  was  suggested  to  her  mind  by  an  article  in  the  North 
American  Review,  in  which  that  class  of  subjects  was  urgently  recom 
mended  as  furnishing  excellent  materials  for  American  works  of  fiction. 
Probably,  the  example  of  Cooper,  who  was  then  in  the  height  of  his 
popularity,  and  still  more,  that  of  Miss  Sedgwick,  whose  "  Redwood"  was 
then  fresh  from  the  pre,ss,  had  also  some  influence  upon  the  new  author. 
Her  work  was  well  received,  and  was  followed  in  1825  by  "  The  Rebels/' 
a  tale  of  the  Revolution,  very  similar  in  character  to  the  former.  Both 
of  these  works  are  now  out  of  print.  A  new  edition  of  them  would  be 
very  acceptable. 

Her  next  publication,  I  believe,  was  "  The  Frugal  Housewife/'  con 
taining  directions  for  household  economy,  and  numerous  receipts.  For 
this  she  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  a  publisher,  in  consequence  of  the 
great  variety  of  cookery  books  already  in  the  market.  But  it  proved  a 
very  profitable  speculation,  more  than  six  thousand  copies  having  been 
sold  in  a  single  year. 

Mrs.  Child's  versatility  of  talent,  and  the  entire  success  with  which 
she  could  pass  from  the  regions  of  fancy  and  sentiment  to  those  of  fact 
and  duty,  still  further  appeared  in  her  next  work,  which  was  on  the  sub 
ject  of  education.  It  was  addressed  to  mothers,  and  was  called  "The 
Mother's  Book."  It  contains  plain,  practical  directions  for  that  most 
important  part  of  education  which  falls  more  immediately  under  the 
mother's  jurisdiction.  It  has  gone  through  very  numerous  editions,  both 
in  this  country  and  in  England,  and  continues  to  hold  its  ground,  notwith- 

(116) 


LYDIA   M.    CHILD.  117 

standing  the  number  of  excellent  books  that  have  since  appeared  on  the 
same  subject.  It  was  published  in  1831. 

The  "  Girl's  Book,"  in  two  volumes,  followed  in  1832,  and  met  with  a 
similar  success.  Its  object  was  not  so  much  the  amusement  of  children, 
as  their  instruction,  setting  forth  the  duties  of  parent  and  child,  but  in  a 
manner  to  attract  youthful  readers. 

She  wrote  about  the  same  time  "  Lives  of  Madame  de  Stael  and  Madame 
Roland,"  in  one  volume;  "Lives  of  Lady  Russell  and  Madame  Guyon," 
in  one  volume ;  "  Biographies  of  Good  Wives,"  in  one  volume ;  and  the 
"  History  of  the  Condition  of  Women  in  all  Ages,"  in  two  volumes.  All 
these  were  prepared  for  the  "  Ladies'  Family  Library,"  of  which  she  was 
the  editor.  They  are  of  the  nature  of  compilations,  and  therefore  do  not 
show  much  opportunity  for  the  display  of  originality.  But  they  do  show, 
what  is  a  remarkable  trait  in  all  of  Mrs.  Child's  writings,  an  earnest  love 
of  truth.  The  most  original  work  of  the  series  is  the  "  History  of  the 
Condition  of  Women."  They  are  all  very  useful  and  valuable  volumes. 

In  1833,  Mrs.  Child  published  an  "  Appeal  for  that  Class  of  Americans 
called  Africans."  It  is  said  to  be  the  first  work  that  appeared  in  this 
country  in  favour  of  immediate  emancipation.  It  made  a  profound  impres 
sion  at  the  time. 

In  the  same  year,  Mrs.  Child  published  "  The  Coronal."  It  was  a  col 
lection  of  small  pieces  in  prose  and  verse,  most  of  which  had  appeared 
before  in  periodicals  of  various  kinds. 

One  of  the  most  finished  and  original  of  Mrs.  Child's  works,  though  it 
has  not  been  the  most  popular,  appeared  in  1835.  It  was  a  romance  of 
Greece  in  the  days  of  Pericles,  entitled  "  Philothea."  Like  the  "  Prophet 
of  Ionia,"  and  some  of  her  other  classical  tales,  the  "  Philothea"  shows  a 
surprising  familiarity  with  the  manners,  places,  and  ideas  of  the  ancients. 
It  seems,  indeed,  more  like  a  translation  of  a  veritable  Grecian  legend, 
than  an  original  work  of  the  nineteenth  century.  While  all  the  externals 
of  scenery,  manners,  and  so  forth,  are  almost  faultlessly  perfect,  perhaps 
not  inferior  in  this  respect  to  the  u  Travels  of  Anacharsis,"  the  story 
itself  has  all  the  freedom  of  the  wildest  romance.  It  is,  however,  romance 
of  a  purely  ideal  or  philosophical  cast,  such  as  one  would  suppose  it  hardly 
possible  to  have  come  from  the  same  pen  that  had  produced  a  marketable 
book  on  cookery,  or  that  was  yet  to  produce  such  heart-histories  as  "  The 
Umbrella  Girl,"  or  "  The  Neighbour-in-law."  Indeed,  the  most  remarka 
ble  thing  in  the  mental  constitution  of  Mrs.  Child,  is  this  harmonious 
combination  of  apparently  opposite  qualities — a  rapt  and  lofty  idealism, 
transcending  equally  the  conventional  and  the  real,  united  with  a  plain 
common  sense  that  can  tell  in  homely  phrase  the  best  way  to  make  a  soup 
or  lay  a  cradle — an  extremely  sensitive  organization,  that  is  carried  into  the 
third  heavens  at  the  sound  of  Ole  Bull's  violin,  and  yet  does  not  shrink 
from  going  down  Lispenard  street  to  see  old  Charity  Bowery. 


118  LYDIA  M.    CHILD. 

Mrs.  Child  conducted  for  several  years  a  "  Juvenile  Miscellany/7  for 
which  she  composed  many  tales  for  the  amusement  and  instruction  of 
children.  These  have  since  been  corrected  and  re-written,  and  others 
added  to  them,  making  three  small  volumes,  called  "  Flowers  for  Child 
ren."  One  of  these  volumes  is  for  children  from  four  to  six  years  of 
age ;  one,  for  those  from  eight  to  nine ;  and  one,  for  those  from  eleven  to 
twelve. 

In  1841,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Child  went  to  New  York,  where  they  conducted 
for  some  time  the  "  Anti-Slavery  Standard."  Mrs.  Child  wrote  much  for 
this  paper,  not  only  upon  the  topic  suggested  by  the  title,  but  on  miscel 
laneous  subjects. 

In  the  same  year,  1841,  she  commenced  a  series  of  Letters  to  the  Boston 
Courier,  which  contain  some  of  the  finest  things  she  has  ever  written. 
They  were  very  extensively  copied,  and  were  afterwards  collected  into  a 
volume,  under  the  title  of  "  Letters  from  New  York."  This  was  followed 
by  a  second  series  in  1845. 

These  Letters  are  exceedingly  various.  They  contain  tales,  speculations, 
descriptions  of  passing  events,  biographies,  and  essays,  and  bring  alter 
nately  tears  and  laughter,  according  to  the  varying  moods  of  the  writer. 

In  1846,  she  published  a  volume  called  "  Fact  and  Fiction,"  consisting 
of  tales  that  had  previously  appeared  in  the  Magazines  and  Annuals. 
These  are  of  a  miscellaneous  character,  somewhat  like  the  "  Letters," 
only  longer. 


OLE  BULL. 

I  HAVE  twice  heard  Ole  Bull.  I  scarcely  dare  to  tell  the  impres 
sion  his  music  made  upon  me.  But  casting  aside  all  fear  of  ridi 
cule  for  excessive  enthusiasm,  I  will  say  that  it  expressed  to  me 
more  of  the  infinite,  than  I  ever  saw,  or  heard,  or  dreamed  of,  in 
the  realms  of  Nature,  Art,  or  Imagination. 

They  tell  me  his  performance  is  wonderfully  skilful ;  but  I  have 
not  enough  of  scientific  knowledge  to  judge  of  the  difficulties  he 
overcomes.  I  can  readily  believe  of  him,  what  Bettina  says  of 
Beethoven,  that  "his  spirit  creates  the  inconceivable,  and  his  fingers 
perform  the  impossible."  He  played  on  four  strings  at  once,  and 
produced  the  rich  harmony  of  four  instruments.  His  bow  touched 
the  strings  as  if  in  sport,  and  brought  forth  light  leaps  of  sound, 
with  electric  rapidity,  yet  clear  in  their  distinctness.  He  made  his 
violin  sing  with  flute-like  voice,  and  accompany  itself  with  a  guitar, 


LYDIA   M.    CHILD.  119 

which  came  in  ever  and  anon  like  big  drops  of  musical  rain.  All 
this  I  felt  as  well  as  heard,  without  the  slightest  knowledge  of 
quartetto  or  staccato.  How  he  did  it,  I  know  as  little  as  I  know 
how  the  sun  shines,  or  the  spring  brings  forth  its  blossoms.  I  only 
know  that  music  came  from  his  soul  into  mine,  and  carried  it  upward 
to  worship  with  the  angels. 

Oh,  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  those  notes !  Now  tripping  and 
fairy-like,  as  the  song  of  Ariel ;  now  soft  and  low,  as  the  breath  of 
a  sleeping  babe,  yet  clear  as  a  fine-toned  bell ;  now  high,  as  a  lark 
soaring  upward,  till  lost  among  the  stars  ! 

Noble  families  sometimes  double  their  names,  to  distinguish  them 
selves  from  collateral  branches  of  inferior  rank.  I  have  doubled 
his,  and  in  memory  of  the  Persian  nightingale  have  named  him  Ole 
Bulbul. 

Immediately  after  a  deep,  impassioned,  plaintive  melody,  an 
adagio  of  his  own  composing,  which  uttered  the  soft,  low  breathing 
of  a  mother's  prayer,  rising  to  the  very  agony  of  supplication,  a 
voice  in  the  crowd  called  for  Yankee  Doodle.  It  shocked  me  like 
harlequin  tumbling  on  the  altar  of  a  temple.  I  had  no  idea  that 
he  would  comply  with  what  seemed  to  me  the  absurd  request.  But, 
smiling,  he  drew  the  bow  across  his  violin,  and  our  national  tune 
rose  on  the  air,  transfigured,  in  a  veil  of  glorious  variations.  It 
was  Yankee  Doodle  in  a  state  of  clairvoyance — a  wonderful  proof 
of  how  the  most  common  and  trivial  may  be  exalted  by  the  influx 
of  the  infinite. 

When  urged  to  join  the  throng  who  are  following  this  star  of 
the  north,  I  coolly  replied,  "  I  never  like  lions ;  moreover,  I  am 
too  ignorant  of  musical  science  to  appreciate  his  skill."  But  when 
I  heard  this  man,  I  at  once  recognised  a  power  that  transcends 
science,  and  which  mere  skill  may  toil  after  in  vain.  I  had  no 
need  of  knowledge  to  feel  this  subtle  influence,  any  more  than  I 
needed  to  study  optics  to  perceive  the  beauty  of  the  rainbow.  It 
overcame  me  like  a  miracle.  I  felt  that  my  soul  was,  for  the  first 
time,  baptized  in  music ;  that  my  spiritual  relations  were  somehow 
changed  by  it,  and  that  I  should  henceforth  be  otherwise  than  I 
had  been.  I  was  so  oppressed  with  "the  exceeding  weight  of 


120  LYDIA    M.    CHILD. 

glory,"  that  I  drew  my  breath  with  difficulty.  As  I  came  out  of 
the  building,  the  street  sounds  hurt  me  with  their  harshness.  The 
sight  of  ragged  boys  and  importunate  coachmen  jarred  more  than 
ever  on  my  feelings.  I  wanted  that  the  angels  that  had  ministered 
to  my  spirit  should  attune  theirs  also.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  such 
music  should  bring  all  the  world  into  the  harmonious  beauty  of 
divine  order.  I  passed  by  my  earthly  home,  and  knew  it  not.  My 
spirit  seemed  to  be  floating  through  infinite  space.  The  next  day 
I  felt  like  a  person  who  had  been  in  a  trance,  seen  heaven  opened, 
and  then  returned  to  earth  again. 

This  doubtless  appears  very  excessive  in  one  who  has  passed  the 
enthusiasm  of  youth,  with  a  frame  too  healthy  and  substantial  to 
be  conscious  of  nerves,  and  with  a  mind  instinctively  opposed  to 
lion-worship.  In  truth,  it  seems  wonderful  to  myself;  but  so  it 
was.  Like  a  romantic  girl  of  sixteen,  I  would  pick  up  the  broken 
string  of  his  violin,  and  wear  it  as  a  relic,  with  a  half  superstitious 
feeling  that  some  mysterious  magic  of  melody  lay  hidden  therein. 

I  know  not  whether  others  were  as  powerfully  wrought  upon  as 
myself;  for  my  whole  being  passed  into  my  ear,  and  the  faces 
around  me  were  invisible.  But  the  exceeding  stillness  showed  that 
the  spirits  of  the  multitude  bowed  down  before  the  magician. 
While  he  was  playing,  the  rustling  of  a  leaf  might  have  been  heard ; 
and  when  he  closed,  the  tremendous  bursts  of  applause  told  how  the 
hearts  of  thousands  leaped  up  like  one. 

His  personal  appearance  increases  the  charm.  He  looks  pure, 
natural,  and  vigorous,  as  I  imagine  Adam  in  Paradise.  His 
inspired  soul  dwells  in  a  strong  frame,  of  admirable  proportions, 
and  looks  out  intensely  from  his  earnest  eyes.  Whatever  may  be 
his  theological  opinions,  the  religious  sentiment  must  be  strong  in 
his  nature ;  for  Teutonic  reverence,  mingled  with  impassioned  aspi 
ration,  shines  through  his  honest  northern  face,  and  runs  through 
all  his  music.  I  speak  of  him  as  he  appears  while  he  and  his  violin 
converse  together.  When  not  playing,  there  is  nothing  observable 
in  his  appearance,  except  genuine  health,  the  unconscious  calmness 
of  strength  in  repose,  and  the  most  unaffected  simplicity  of  dress 
and  manner.  But  when  he  takes  his  violin,  and  holds  it  so  caress- 


LYDIA   M.    CHILD.  121 

inglj  to  his  ear,  to  catch  the  faint  vibration  of  its  strings,  it  seems 
as  if  "the  angels  were  whispering  to  him."  As  his  fingers  sweep 
across  the  sidings,  the  angels  pass  into  his  soul,  give  him  their 
tones,  and  look  out  from  his  eyes,  with  the  wondrous  beauty  of 
inspiration.  His  motions  sway  to  the  music,  like  a  tree  in  the 
winds  ;  for  soul  and  body  accord.  In  fact,  "his  soul  is  but  a  harp, 
which  an  infinite  breath  modulates;  his  senses  are  but  strings, 
which  weave  the  passing  air  into  rhythm  and  cadence." 

If  it  be  true,  as  has  been  said,  that  a  person  ignorant  of  the 
rules  of  music,  who  gives  himself  up  to  its  influence,  without  know 
ing  whence  it  comes,  or  whither  it  goes,  experiences,  more  than 
the  scientific,  the  passionate  joy  of  the  composer  himself,  in  his 
moments  of  inspiration,  then  was  I  blest  in  my  ignorance.  While 
I  listened,  music  was  to  my  soul  what  the  atmosphere  is  to  my 
body;  it  was  the  breath  of  my  inward  life.  I  felt,  more  deeply 
than  ever,  that  music  is  the  highest  symbol  of  the  infinite  and  holy. 
I  heard  it  moan  plaintively  over  the  discords  of  society,  and  the 
dimmed  beauty  of  humanity.  It  filled  me  with  inexpressible  long 
ing  to  see  man  at  one  with  Nature  and  with  God ;  and  it  thrilled 
me  with  joyful  prophecy  that  the  hope  would  pass  into  glorious 
fulfilment. 

With  renewed  force  I  felt  what  I  have  often  said,  that  the  secret 
of  creation  lay  in  music.  "A  voice  to  light  gave  being."  Sound 
led  the  stars  into  their  places,  and  taught  chemical  affinities  to 
waltz  into  each  other's  arms. 

"By  one  pervading  spirit 

Of  tones  and  numbers  all  things  are  controlled ; 
As  sages  taught,  where  faith  was  found,  to  merit 
Initiation  in  that  mystery  old." 

Music  is  the  soprano,  the  feminine  principle,  the  heart  of  the 
universe.  Because  it  is  the  voice  of  Love, — because  it  is  the  high 
est  type,  and  aggregate  expression  of  passional  attraction,  therefore 
it  is  infinite;  therefore  it  pervades  all  space,  and  transcends  all 
being,  like  a  divine  influx.  What  the  tone  is  to  the  word,  what 
expression  is  to  the  form,  what  affection  is  to  thought,  what  the 

16 


122  LYDIA   M.    CHILD. 

heart  is  to  the  head,  what  intuition  is  to  argument,  what  insight  is 
to  policy,  what  religion  is  to  philosophy,  what  holiness  is  to  hero 
ism,  what  moral  influence  is  to  power,  what  woman  is  to  man — is 
music  to  the  universe.  Flexile,  graceful,  and  free,  it  pervades  all 
things,  and  is  limited  by  none.  It  is  not  poetry,  but  the  soul  of 
poetry  ;  it  is  not  mathematics,  but  it  is  in  numbers,  like  harmonious 
proportions  in  cast  iron ;  it  is  not  painting,  but  it  shines  through 
colours,  and  gives  them  their  tone ;  it  is  not  dancing,  but  it  makes 
all  gracefulness  of  motion ;  it  is  not  architecture,  but  the  stones 
take  their  places  in  harmony  with  its  voice,  and  stand  in  "  petrified 
music."  In  the  words  of  Bettina — "Every  art  is  the  body  of 
music,  which  is  the  soul  of  every  art ;  and  so  is  music,  too,  the  soul 
of  love,  which  also  answers  not  for  its  working ;  for  it  is  the  contact 
of  divine  with  human." 

But  I  must  return  from  this  flight  among  the  stars,  to  Ole  Bul- 
bul's  violin ;  and  the  distance  between  the  two  is  not  so  great  as  it 
appears. 

Some,  who  never  like  to  admit  that  the  greatest  stands  before 
them,  say  that  Paganini  played  the  Carnival  of  Venice  better  than 
his  Norwegian  rival.  I  know  not.  But  if  ever  laughter  ran  along 
the  chords  of  a  musical  instrument  with  a  wilder  joy,  if  ever  tones 
quarrelled  with  more  delightful  dissonance,  if  ever  violin  frolicked 
with  more  capricious  grace,  than  Ole  Bulbul's,  in  that  fantastic 
whirl  of  melody,  I  envy  the  ears  that  heard  it. 


THE  UMBRELLA  GIRL. 

IN  a  city,  which  shall  be  nameless,  there  lived,  long  ago,  a  young 
girl,  the  only  daughter  of  a  widow.  She  came  from  the  country, 
and  was  as  ignorant  of  the  dangers  of  a  city,  as  the  squirrels  of  her 
native  fields.  She  had  glossy  black  hair,  gentle,  beaming  eyes, 
and  "lips  like  wet  coral."  Of  course,  she  knew  that  she  was  beau 
tiful  ;  for  when  she  was  a  child,  strangers  often  stopped  as  she 
passed,  and  exclaimed,  "  How  handsome  she  is !"  And  as  she 


LYDIA  M.   CHILD.  123 

grew  older,  the  young  men  gazed  on  her  with  admiration.  She 
was  poor,  and  removed  to  the  city  to  earn  her  living  by  covering 
umbrellas.  She  was  just  at  that  susceptible  age,  when  youth  is 
passing  into  womanhood ;  when  the  soul  begins  to  be  pervaded  by 
"that  restless  principle,  which  impels  poor  humans  to  seek  perfec 
tion  in  union." 

At  the  hotel  opposite,  Lord  Henry  Stuart,  an  English  nobleman, 
had  at  that  time  taken  lodgings.  His  visit  to  this  country  is  doubt 
less  well  remembered  by  many,  for  it  made  a  great  sensation  at  the 
time.  He  was  a  peer  of  the  realm,  descended  from  the  royal  line, 
and  was,  moreover,  a  strikingly  handsome  man,  of  right  princely 
carriage.  He  was  subsequently  a  member  of  the  British  Parlia 
ment,  and  is  now  dead. 

As  this  distinguished  stranger  passed  to  and  from  his  hotel,  he 
encountered  the  umbrella-girl,  and  was  impressed  by  her  uncommon 
beauty.  He  easily  traced  her  to  the  opposite  store,  where  he  soon 
after  went  to  purchase  an  umbrella.  This  was  followed  up  by  pre 
sents  of  flowers,  chats  by  the  way-side,  and  invitations  to  walk  or 
ride ;  all  of  which  were  gratefully  accepted  by  the  unsuspecting 
rustic.  He  was  playing  a  game  for  temporary  excitement ;  she, 
with  a  head  full  of  romance,  and  a  heart  melting  under  the  influ 
ence  of  love,  was  unconsciously  endangering  the  happiness  of  her 
whole  life. 

Lord  Henry  invited  her  to  visit  the  public  gardens  on  the  fourth 
of  July.  In  the  simplicity  of  her  heart,  she  believed  all  his  flatter 
ing  professions,  and  considered  herself  his  bride  elect ;  she  therefore 
accepted  the  invitation  with  innocent  frankness.  But  she  had  no 
dress  fit  to  appear  on  such  a  public  occasion,  with  a  gentleman  of 
high  rank,  whom  she  verily  supposed  to  be  her  destined  husband. 
While  these  thoughts  revolved  in  her  mind,  her  eye  was  unfortu 
nately  attracted  by  a  beautiful  piece  of  silk  belonging  to  her 
employer.  Ah,  could  she  not  take  it  without  being  seen,  and  pay 
for  it  secretly,  when  she  had  earned  money  enough  ?  The  tempta 
tion  conquered  her  in  a  moment  of  weakness.  She  concealed  the 
silk,  and  conveyed  it  to  her  lodgings.  It  was  the  first  thing  she 
had  ever  stolen,  and  her  remorse  was  painful.  She  would  have 


124  LYDIA   M.   CHILD. 

carried  it  back,  but  she  dreaded  discovery.  She  was  not  sure  that 
her  repentance  would  be  met  in  a  spirit  of  forgiveness. 

On  the  eventful  fourth  of  July  she  came  out  in  her  new  dress. 
Lord  Henry  complimented  her  upon  her  elegant  appearance ;  but 
she  was  not  happy.  On  their  way  to  the  gardens,  he  talked  to  her 
in  a  manner  which  she  did  not  comprehend.  Perceiving  this,  he 
spoke  more  explicitly.  The  guileless  young  creature  stopped, 
looked  in  his  face  with  mournful  reproach,  and  burst  into  tears. 
The  nobleman  took  her  hand  kindly,  and  said,  "My  dear,  are  you 
an  innocent  girl?"  "I  am,  I  am,"  replied  she,  with  convulsive 
sobs.  "  Oh,  what  have  I  ever  done,  or  said,  that  you  should  ask 
me  that?"  Her  words  stirred  the  deep  fountains  of  his  better 
nature.  '"If  you  are  innocent,"  said  he,  "God  forbid  that  I 
should  make  you  otherwise.  But  you  accepted  my  invitations  and 
presents  so  readily,  that  I  supposed  you  understood  me."  "What 
could  I  understand,"  said  she,  "  except  that  you  intended  to  make 
me  your  wife?"  Though  reared  amid  the  proudest  distinctions  of 
rank,  he  felt  no  inclination  to  smile.  He  blushed  and  was  silent. 
The  heartless  conventionalities  of  life  stood  rebuked  in  the  presence 
of  affectionate  simplicity.  He  conveyed  her  to  her  humble  home, 
and  bade  her  farewell,  with  a  thankful  consciousness  that  he  had 
done  no  irretrievable  injury  to  her  future  prospects.  The  remem 
brance  of  her  would  soon  be  to  him  as  the  recollection  of  last  year's 
butterflies.  With  her,  the  wound  was  deeper.  In  her  solitary 
chamber,  she  wept  in  bitterness  of  heart  over  her  ruined  air-castles. 
And  that  dress,  which  she  had  stolen  to  make  an  appearance  befit 
ting  his  bride  !  Oh,  what  if  she  should  be  discovered?  And  would 
not  the  heart  of  her  poor  widowed  mother  break,  if  she  should  ever 
know  that  her  child  was  a  thief?  Alas,  her  wretched  forebodings 
were  too  true.  The  silk  was  traced  to  her ;  she  was  arrested  on 
her  way  to  the  store,  and  dragged  to  prison.  There  she  refused 
all  nourishment,  and  wept  incessantly. 

On  the  fourth  day,  the  keeper  called  upon  Isaac  T.  Hopper,  and 
informed  him  that  there  was  a  young  girl  in  prison,  who  appeared 
to  be  utterly  friendless,  and  determined  to  die  by  starvation.  The 
kind-hearted  Friend  immediately  went  to  her  assistance.  He  found 


LYDIA   M.   CHILD.  125 

her  lying  on  the  floor  of  her  cell,  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands, 
sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  He  tried  to  comfort  her,  but 
could  obtain  no  answer. 

"Leave  us  alone,"  said  he  to  the  keeper.  "Perhaps  she  will 
speak  to  me,  if  there  is  no  one  to  hear."  When  they  were  alone 
together,  he  put  back  the  hair  from  her  temples,  laid  his  hand 
kindly  on  her  beautiful  head,  and  said  in  soothing  tones,  "  My 
child,  consider  me  as  thy  father.  Tell  me  all  thou  hast  done.  If 
thou  hast  taken  this  silk,  let  me  know  all  about  it.  I  will  do  for 
thee  as  I  would  for  a  daughter ;  and  I  doubt  not  that  I  can  help 
thee  out  of  this  difficulty." 

After  a  long  time  spent  in  affectionate  entreaty,  she  leaned  her 
young  head  on  his  friendly  shoulder,  and  sobbed  out,  "  Oh,  I  wish 
I  was  dead.  What  will  my  poor  mother  say,  when  she  knows  of 
my  disgrace  ?" 

"Perhaps  we  can  manage  that  she  never  shall  know  it,"  replied 
he ;  and  alluring  her  by  this  hope,  he  gradually  obtained  from  her 
the  whole  story  of  her  acquaintance  with  the  nobleman.  He  bade 
her  be  comforted,  and  take  nourishment ;  for  he  would  see  that  the 
silk  was  paid  for,  and  the  prosecution  withdrawn.  He  went  imme 
diately  to  her  employer,  and  told  him  the  story.  "  This  is  her  first 
offence,"  said  he ;  "  the  girl  is  young,  and  the  only  child  of  a  poor 
widow.  Give  her  a  chance  to  retrieve  this  one  false  step,  and  she 
may  be  restored  to  society,  a  useful  and  honoured  woman.  I  will 
see  that  thou  art  paid  for  the  silk."  The  man  readily  agreed  to 
withdraw  the  prosecution,  and  said  he  would  have  dealt  otherwise 
by  the  girl,  had  he  known  all  the  circumstances.  "  Thou  shouldst 
have  inquired  into  the  merits  of  the  case,  my  friend,"  replied  Isaac. 
"  By  this  kind  of  thoughtlessness,  many  a  young  creature  is  driven 
into  the  downward  path,  who  might  easily  have  been  saved." 

The  kind-hearted  man  then  went  to  the  hotel  and  inquired  for 
Henry  Stuart.  The  servant  said  his  lordship  had  not  yet  risen. 
"  Tell  him  my  business  is  of  importance,"  said  Friend  Hopper. 
The  servant  soon  returned  and  conducted  him  to  the  chamber. 
The  nobleman  appeared  surprised  that  a  plain  Quaker  should  thus 
intrude  upon  his  luxurious  privacy ;  but  when  he  heard  his  errand, 


126  LYDIA   M.    CHILD. 

he  blushed  deeply,  and  frankly  admitted  the  truth  of  the  girl's 
statement.  His  benevolent  visiter  took  the  opportunity  to  "bear  a 
testimony,"  as  the  Friends  say,  against  the  sin  and  selfishness  of 
profligacy.  He  did  it  in  such  a  kind  and  fatherly  manner,  that 
the  young  man's  heart  was  touched.  He  excused  himself,  by  say 
ing  that  he  would  not  have  tampered  with  the  girl,  if  he  had  known 
her  to  be  virtuous.  "  I  have  done  many  wrong  things,"  said  he, 
"  but,  thank  God,  no  betrayal  of  confiding  innocence  rests  on  my 
conscience.  I  have  always  esteemed  it  the  basest  act  of  which  man 
is  capable."  The  imprisonment  of  the  poor  girl,  and  the  forlorn 
situation  in  which  she  had  been  found,  distressed  him  greatly.  And 
when  Isaac  represented  that  the  silk  had  been  stolen  for  his  sake, 
that  the  girl  had  thereby  lost  profitable  employment,  and  was 
obliged  to  return  to  her  distant  home,  to  avoid  the  danger  of  expo 
sure,  he  took  out  a  fifty  dollar  note,  and  offered  it  to  pay  her 
expenses.  "Nay,"  said  Isaac,  "thou  art  a  very  rich  man;  I  see 
in  thy  hand  a  large  roll  of  such  notes.  She  is  the  daughter  of  a 
poor  widow,  and  thou  hast  been  the  means  of  doing  her  great 
injury.  Give  me  another." 

Lord  Henry  handed  him  another  fifty  dollar  note,  and  smiled  as 
he  said,  "You  understand  your  business  well.  But  you  have  acted 
nobly,  and  I  reverence  you  for  it.  If  you  ever  visit  England,  come 
to  see  me.  I  will  give  you  a  cordial  welcome,  and  treat  you  like  a 
nobleman." 

"  Farewell,  friend,"  replied  Isaac  :  "  Though  much  to  blame  in 
this  affair,  thou  too  hast  behaved  nobly.  Mayst  thou  be  blessed  in 
domestic  life,  and  trifle  no  more  with  the  feelings  of  poor  girls ; 
not  even  with  those  whom  others  have  betrayed  and  deserted." 

Luckily,  the  girl  had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  assume  a 
false  name,  when  arrested;  by  which  means  her  true  name  was 
kept  out  of  the  newspapers.  "I  did  this,"  said  she,  "  for  my  poor 
mother's  sake."  With  the  money  given  by  Lord  Henry,  the  silk 
was  paid  for,  and  she  was  sent  home  to  her  mother,  well  provided 
with  clothing.  Her  name  and  place  of  residence  remain  to  this  day 
a  secret  in  the  breast  of  her  benefactor. 

Several  years  after  the  incidents  I  have  related,  a  lady  called 


LYD1A  M.   CHILD.  127 

at  Friend  Hopper's  house,  and  asked  to  see  him.  When  he  entered 
the  room,  he  found  a  handsomely  dressed  young  matron  with  a 
blooming  boy  of  five  or  six  years  old.  She  rose  to  meet  him  and 
her  voice  choked,  as  she  said,  "  Friend  Hopper,  do  you  know  me  ?" 
He  replied  that  he  did  not.  She  fixed  her  tearful  eyes  earnestly 
upon  him,  and  said,  "  You  once  helped  me,  when  in  great  distress." 
But  the  good  missionary  of  humanity  had  helped  too  many  in 
distress,  to  be  able  to  recollect  her  without  more  precise  informa 
tion.  With  a  tremulous  voice,  she  bade  her  son  go  into  the  next 
room,  for  a  few  minutes ;  then  dropping  on  her  knees,  she  hid  her 
face  in  his  lap,  and  sobbed  out,  "  I  am  the  girl  that  stole  the  silk. 
Oh,  where  should  I  now  be,  if  it  had  not  been  for  you !" 

When  her  emotion  was  somewhat  calmed,  she  told  him  that  she 
had  married  a  highly  respectable  man,  a  Senator  of  his  native 
State.  Having  a  call  to  visit  the  city,  she  had  again  and  again 
passed  Friend  Hopper's  house,  looking  wistfully  at  the  windows  to 
catch  a  sight  of  him ;  but  when  she  attempted  to  enter,  her  courage 
failed. 

"But  I  go  away  to-morrow,"  said  she,  "and  I  could  not  leave 
the  city,  without  once  more  seeing  and  thanking  him  who  saved  me 
from  ruin."  She  recalled  her  little  boy,  and  said  to  him,  "Look 
at  that  gentleman,  and  remember  him  well ;  for  he  was  the  best 
friend  your  mother  ever  had."  With  an  earnest  invitation  that  he 
would  visit  her  happy  home,  and  a  fervent  "  God  bless  you,"  she 
bade  her  benefactor  farewell. 


EMMA    C.    EMBURY. 


MRS.  EMBURY  is  a  native  of  New  York,  and  a  daughter  of  an  eminent 
physician  of  that  city,  James  R.  Manly,  M.  D.  She  was  married  on  the 
28th  of  May,  1828,  to  Mr.  Daniel  Embury,  of  Brooklyn,  where  she  has 
since  resided. 

Mrs.  Embury  has  written  much,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  with 
equal  success  in  both  kinds  of  writing.  Her  earlier  effusions  were 
published  under  the  signature  of  "lanthe."  A  volume  of  them  was  col 
lected  under  the  title  of  "  Guido,  and  other  Poems."  Her  tales,  like  her 
poems,  have  all  been  published  originally  in  magazines  and  other  perio 
dicals.  "Were  these  all  collected,  they  would  fill  many  volumes.  The 
only  volumes  formed  in  this  way,  thus  far,  have  been,  "  Blind  Girl,  and 
other  Tales/'  "  Glimpses  of  Home  Life,"  and  "  Pictures  of  Early  Life." 
In  1845  she  edited  a  very  elegant  gift  book,  called  "Nature's  Gems, 
or  American  Wild  Flowers,"  with  numerous  coloured  plates,  and  articles, 
both  in  prose  and  verse,  by  herself.  In  1846,  she  published  another  col 
lection  of  poems,  called  "  Love's  Token  Flowers."  In  1848,  "  The  Wal 
dorf  Family"  appeared.  It  is  a  fairy  tale  of  Brittany,  adapted  to  the 
meridian  of  the  United  States  and  the  present  age  of  the  world,  being 
partly  a  translation  and  partly  original. 

If  Mrs.  Embury  never  rises  so  high  as  some  of  our  female  writers  some 
times  do,  no  one,  on  the  other  hand,  who  has  written  so  much,  approaches 
her  in  the  ability  of  writing  uniformly  well.  She  seems  to  have  the 
faculty  of  never  being  dull.  There  is,  too,  a  certain  gentle  amenity  of 
thought  and  diction  that  never  forsakes  her,  taking  from  the  edge  of  what 
might  otherwise  be  harsh,  and  giving  a  charm  to  what  might  be  common 
place.  If  her  stories  are  not  deeply  tragical  or  thrilling,  they  are  always 
beautiful,  they  always  please,  they  always  leave  the  mind  instructed  and 
the  heart  better. 

(128) 


EMMA  C.    EMBURY.  129 


TWO  FACES  UNDER  ONE  HOOD. 

"  The  land  hath  bubbles  as  the  water  hath, 
And  these  are  of  them." 

"WHO  is  she?" 

"  Ay,  that  is  precisely  the  question  which  everybody  asks,  and 
nobody  can  answer." 

"  She  is  a  splendid-looking  creature,  be  she  who  she  may." 

"  And  her  manners  are  as  lovely  as  her  person.  Come  and  dine 
with  me  to-morrow ;  I  sit  directly  opposite  her  at  table,  so  you  can 
have  a  fair  opportunity  of  gazing  at  this  new  star  in  our  dingy 
firmament." 

"Agreed;  I  am  about  changing  my  lodgings,  and  if  I  like  the 
company  at  your  house,  I  may  take  a  room  there. 

The  speakers  were  two  gay  and  fashionable  men :  one  a  student 
of  law,  the  other  a  confidential  clerk  in  a  large  commercial  house. 
They  belonged  to  that  class  of  youths,  so  numerous  in  New  York, 
who,  while  in  reality  labouring  most  industriously  for  a  livelihood, 
yet  take  infinite  pains  to  seem  idle  and  useless  members  of 
society ;  fellows  who  at  their  outset  in  life  try  hard  to  repress  a 
certain  respectability  of  character,  which  after  a  while  comes  up 
in  spite  of  them,  and  makes  them  very  good  sort  of  men  in  the 
end.  The  lady  who  attracted  so  much  of  their  attention  at  that 
moment,  had  recently  arrived  in  the  city ;  and,  as  she  wore  the 
weeds  of  widowhood,  her  solitary  position  seemed  sufficiently  ex 
plained.  But  there  was  an  attractiveness  in  her  appearance  and 
manners  which  excited  a  more  than  usual  interest  in  the  stranger's 
history.  She  had  that  peculiar  fascination  which  gentlemen  regard 
as  the  most  exquisite  refinement  of  frank  simplicity,  but  which 
ladies,  better  versed  in  the  intricacies  of  female  nature,  always 
recognise  as  the  perfection  of  art.  None  but  an  impulsive,  warm 
hearted  woman,  can  retain  her  freshness  of  feeling  and  ready 
responsive  sympathy  after  five-and-twenty ;  and  such  a  woman 

never  obtains  sufficient  command  over  her  own    sensitiveness  to 
17 


130  EMMA   C.    EMBURY. 

exhibit  the  perfect  adaptability  and  uniform  amiableness  of  deport 
ment  which  are  characteristics  of  the  skilful  fascinator. 

Harry  Maurice,  the  young  lawyerling,  failed  not  to  fulfil  his 
appointment  with  his  friend ;  and  at  four  o'clock  on  the  following 
day,  he  found  himself  the  vis-d-vis  of  the  bewitching  Mrs.  Howard, 
gazing  on  her  loveliness  through  the  somewhat  hazy  atmosphere 
of  a  steaming  dinner-table.  If  he  was  struck  with  her  appearance 
when  he  saw  her  only  stepping  from  a  carriage,  he  was  now  com 
pletely  bewildered  by  the  whole  battery  of  charms  which  were 
directed  against  him.  A  well-rounded  and  graceful  figure,  whose 
symmetry  was  set  off  by  a  close-fitting  dress  of  black  bombazine ; 
superb  arms  gleaming  through  sleeves  of  the  thinnest  crape ;  a 
neck  of  dazzling  whiteness,  only  half  concealed  beneath  the  folds 
of  a  fichu  a  la  grand' mere  ;  features  not  regularly  beautiful,  some 
what  sharp  in  outline,  but  full  of  expression,  and  enlivened  by  the 
brightest  of  eyes  and  pearliest  of  teeth,  were  the  most  obvious  of 
her  attractions. 

The  ordinary  civilities  of  the  table,  proffered  with  profound  respect 
by  Maurice,  and  accepted  with  quiet  dignity  by  the  lady,  opened 
the  way  to  conversation.  Before  the  dessert  came  on,  the  first 
barriers  to  acquaintance  had  been  removed,  and,  somewhat  to  his 
own  surprise,  Harry  Maurice  found  himself  perpetrating  bad  puns 
and  uttering  gay  bon-mots  in  the  full  hearing,  and  evidently  to  the 
genuine  amusement,  of  the  lovely  widow.  When  dinner  was  over, 
the  trio  found  themselves  in  the  midst  of  an  animated  discussion 
respecting  the  relative  capacity  for  sentiment  in  men  and  women. 
The  subject  was  too  interesting  to  be  speedily  dropped,  and  the 
party  adjourned  to  a  convenient  corner  of  the  drawing-room.  As 
usual,  the  peculiar  character  of  the  topic  upon  which  they  had  fallen, 
led  to  the  unguarded  expression  of  individual  opinions,  and  of 
course  to  the  development  of  much  implied  experience.  Nothing 
could  have  been  better  calculated  to  display  Mrs.  Howard  as  one 
of  the  most  sensitive,  as  well  as  sensible  of  her  sex.  She  had  evi 
dently  been  one  of  the  victims  to  the  false  notions  of  society.  A 
premature  marriage,  an  uncongenial  partner,  and  all  the  thousand- 


EMMA  C.   EMBURY.  131 

and-one  ills  attendant  upon  baffled  sentiment,  had  probably  entered 
largely  into  the  lady's  bygone  knowledge  of  life.  Not  that  she 
deigned  to  confide  any  of  her  personal  experience  to  her  new  friends, 
but  they  possessed  active  imaginations,  and  it  was  easy  to  make 
large  inferences  from  small  premises. 

Midnight  sounded  ere  the  young  men  remembered  that  some 
thing  was  due  to  the  ordinary  forms  of  society,  and  that  they  had 
been  virtually  "  talking  love,"  for  seven  hours,  to  a  perfect  stranger. 
The  sudden  reaction  of  feeling,  the  dread  lest  they  had  been  expos 
ing  their  peculiar  habits  of  thought  to  the  eye  of  ridicule,  the 
frightful  suspicion  that  they  must  have  seemed  most  particularly 
"  fresh"  to  the  lady,  struck  both  the  gentlemen  at  the  same  moment. 
They  attempted  to  apologize,  but  the  womanly  tact  of  Mrs.  Howard 
spared  them  all  the  discomfort  of  such  an  awkward  explanation. 
She  reproached  herself  so  sweetly  for  having  suffered  her  impulsive 
nature  to  beguile  her  with  such  unwonted  confidence, — she  thanked 
them  so  gently  for  their  momentary  interest  in  her  "  melancholy 
recollections  of  blighted  feelings," — she  so  earnestly  implored  them 
to  forget  her  indiscreet  communings  with  persons  "  whose  singular 
congeniality  of  soul  had  made  her  forget  that  they  were  strangers," 
that  she  succeeded  in  restoring  them  to  a  comfortable  sense  of  their 
own  powers  of  attraction.  Instead  of  thinking  they  had  acted  like 
men  "afflicted  with  an  extraordinary  quantity  of  young  ness  "  they 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Mrs.  Howard  was  one  of  the  most  dis 
criminating  of  her  sex ;  and  the  tear  which  swam  in  her  soft  eyes 
as  she  gave  them  her  hand  in  parting,  added  the  one  irresistible 
charm  to  their  previous  bewilderment. 

The  acquaintance  so  auspiciously  begun  was  not  allowed  to 
languish.  Harry  Maurice  took  lodgings  in  the  same  house ;  and 
thus,  without  exposing  the  fair  widow  to  invidious  remark,  he  was 
enabled  to  enjoy  her  society  with  less  restraint.  Unlike  most  of 
his  sudden  fancies,  he  found  his  liking  for  this  lady  "  to  grow  by 
what  it  fed  on."  She  looked  so  very  lovely  in  her  simple  white 
morning  dress  and  pretty  French  cap,  and  her  manners  partook  so 
agreeably  of  the  simplicity  and  easy  negligence  of  her  breakfast 
attire,  that  she  seemed  more  charming  than  ever.  Indeed,  almost 


132  EMMA   C.   EMBURY. 

every  one  in  the  house  took  a  fancy  to  her.  She  won  the  hearts 
of  the  ladies  by  her  unbounded  fondness  for  their  children,  and  her 
consummate  tact  in  inventing  new  games  for  them ;  while  her  entire 
unconsciousness  of  her  own  attractions,  and  apparent  indifference 
to  admiration,  silenced  for  a  time  all  incipient  jealousy.  The 
gentlemen  could  not  but  be  pleased  with  a  pretty  woman  who  was 
so  sweet-tempered  and  so  little  exacting ;  while  her  peculiar  talent 
for  putting  every  one  in  good  humour  with  themselves, — a  talent, 
which  in  less  skilful  hands  would  have  been  merely  an  adroit  power 
of  flattery, — sufficiently  accounted  for  her  general  influence. 

There  was  only  one  person  who  seemed  proof  against  Mrs. 
Howard's  spell.  This  was  an  old  bank  clerk,  who  for  forty  years 
had  occupied  the  same  post,  and  stood  at  the  same  desk,  encounter 
ing  no  other  changes  than  that  of  a  new  ledger  for  an  old  one,  and 
hating  every  innovation  in  morals  and  manners  with  an  intensity 
singularly  at  variance  with  his  usual  quietude,  or  rather  stagnation 
of  feeling.  For  nearly  half  his  life  he  had  occupied  the  same 
apartment,  and  nothing  but  a  fire  or  an  earthquake  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  dislodge  him.  Many  of  the  transient  residents  in  the 
house  knew  him  only  by  the  sobriquet  of  "  the  Captain ;"  and  the 
half-dictatorial,  half-whimsical  manner  in  which,  with  the  usual 
privilege  of  a  humourist,  he  ordered  trifling  matters  about  the 
house,  was  probably  the  origin  of  the  title.  When  the  ladies  who 
presided  at  the  head  of  the  establishment  first  opened  their  house 
for  the  reception  of  boarders,  he  had  taken  up  his  quarters  there, 
and  they  had  all  grown  old  together ;  so  it  was  not  to  be  wondered 
at  if  he  had  somewhat  the  manner  of  a  master. 

The  Captain  had  looked  with  an  evil  eye  upon  Mrs.  Howard  from 
the  morning  after  her  arrival,  when  he  had  detected  her  French 
dressing-maid  in  the  act  of  peeping  into  his  boots,  as  they  stood 
outside  of  the  chamber-door.  This  instance  of  curiosity,  which  he 
could  only  attribute  to  an  unjustifiable  anxiety  to  be  acquainted 
with  the  name  of  the  owner  of  the  said  boots,  was  such  a  flagrant 
impropriety,  besides  being  such  a  gross  violation  of  his  privilege  of 
privacy,  that  he  could  not  forgive  it.  He  made  a  formal  complaint 
of  the  matter  to  Mrs.  Howard,  and  earnestly  advised  her  to  dismiss 


EMMA   C.    EMBURY.  133 

so  prying  a  servant.  The  lady  pleaded  her  attachment  to  a  faith 
ful  attendant,  who  had  left  her  native  France  for  pure  love  of  her, 
and  besought  him  to  forgive  a  first  and  venial  error.  The  Captain 
had  no  faith  in  this  being  a  first  fault,  and  as  for  its  veniality,  if 
she  had  put  out  an  "I,"  and  called  it  a  venal  affair,  it  would  have 
better  suited  his  ideas  of  her.  He  evidently  suspected  both  the 
mistress  and  the  maid ;  and  a  prejudice  in  his  mind  was  like  a 
thistle-seed, — it  might  wing  its  way  on  gossamer  pinions,  but  once 
planted,  it  was  sure  to  produce  its  crop  of  thorns. 

In  vain  the  lady  attempted  to  conciliate  him ;  in  vain  she  tried 
to  humour  his  whims,  and  pat  and  fondle  his  hobbies.  He  was 
proof  against  all  her  allurements,  and  whenever  by  some  new  or 
peculiar  grace  she  won  unequivocal  expressions  of  admiration  from 
the  more  susceptible  persons  around  her,  a  peevish  "Fudge!" 
would  resound  most  emphatically  from  the  Captain's  lips. 

"  Pray,  sir,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  inform  me  what  you  meant 
by  the  offensive  monosyllable  you  chose  to  utter  this  morning,  when 
I  addressed  a  remark  to  Mrs.  Howard?"  said  Harry  Maurice  to 
him,  upon  a  certain  occasion,  when  the  old  gentleman  had  seemed 
more  than  usually  caustic  and  observing. 

The  Captain  looked  slowly  up  from  his  newspaper :  "  I  am  old 
enough,  young  man,  to  be  allowed  to  talk  to  myself,  if  I  please." 

"I  suppose  you  meant  to  imply  that  I  was  <  green ,'  and  stood  a 
fair  chance  of  being  'done  brown,'"  said  Harry,  mischievously, 
well  knowing  his  horror  of  all  modern  slang. 

"  I  am  no  judge  of  colours,'' 'said  he,  drily,  "  but  I  can  tell  a  fool 
from  a  knave  when  I  see  them  contrasted.  In  old  times  it  was  the 
woman's  privilege  to  play  the  fool,  but  the  order  of  things  is  re 
versed  now-a-days."  So  saying,  he  drew  on  his  gloves,  and  walked 
out  with  his  usual  clock-like  regularity. 

Three  months  passed  away,  and  Harry  Maurice  was  "full  five 
fathoms  deep"  in  love  with  the  beautiful  stranger.  Yet  he  knew 
no  more  of  her  personal  history  than  on  the  day  when  they  first 
met,  and  the  old  question  of  "  Who  is  she?"  was  often  in  his  mind, 
though  the  respect  growing  out  of  a  genuine  attachment  checked  it 
ere  the  words  rose  to  his  lips.  He  heard  her  speak  of  plantations 


134  EMMA   C.    EMBURY. 

at  the  South,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion  he  had  been  favoured 
with  a  commission  to  transact  banking  business  for  her.  He  had 
made  several  deposits  in  her  name,  and  had  drawn  out  several  small 
sums  for  her  use.  He  knew  therefore  that  she  had  moneys  at  com 
mand,  but  of  her  family  and  connexions  he  was  profoundly  ignorant. 
He  was  too  much  in  love,  however,  to  hesitate  long  on  this  point. 
Young,  ardent,  and  possessed  of  that  pseMc?o-romance,  which,  like 
French  gilding,  so  much  resembles  the  real  thing  that  many  prefer 
it,  as  being  cheaper  and  more  durable,  he  was  particularly  pleased 
with  the  apparent  disinterestedness  of  his  aifection.  Too  poor  to 
marry  unless  he  found  a  bride  possessed  of  fortune,  he  was  now  pre 
cisely  in  the  situation  where  alone  he  could  feel  himself  on  the 
same  footing  with  a  wealthy  wife.  He  had  an  established  position 
in  society,  his  family  were  among  the  oldest  and  most  respectable 
residents  of  the  State,  and  the  offer  of  his  hand  under  such  circum 
stances  to  a  lone,  unfriended  stranger,  took  away  all  appearance 
of  cupidity  from  the  suitor,  while  it  constituted  a  claim  upon  the 
lady's  gratitude  as  well  as  affection.  With  all  his  assumed  self- 
confidence,  Maurice  was  in  reality  a  very  modest  fellow,  and  he 
had  many  a  secret  misgiving  as  to  her  opinion  of  his  merits  ;  for 
he  was  one  of  those  youths  who  use  puppyism  as  a  cloak  for  their 
diffidence.  He  wanted  to  assure  himself  of  her  preference  before 
committing  himself  by  a  declaration,  and  to  do  this  required  a 
degree  of  skill  in  womancraft  that  far  exceeded  his  powers. 

In  the  mean  time  the  prejudices  of  the  Captain  gained  greater 
strength,  and  although  there  was  no  open  war  between  him  and  the 
fair  widow,  there  was  perpetual  skirmishing  between  them.  Indeed 
it  could  not  well  be  otherwise,  considering  the  decided  contrast  be 
tween  the  two  parties.  The  Captain  was  prejudiced,  dogmatic,  and 
full  of  old-fashioned  notions.  A  steady  adherent  of  ruffled  shirts, 
well-starched  collars,  and  shaven  chins,  he  regarded  with  contempt 
the  paltry  subterfuges  of  modern  fashion.  At  five-and-twenty  he 
had  formed  his  habits  of  thinking  and  acting,  and  at  sixty  he  was 
only  the  same  man  grown  older.  A  certain  indolence  of  temper 
prevented  him  from  investigating  anything  new,  and  he  was  therefore 


EMMA  C.   EMBURY.  135 

content  to  deny  all  that  did  not  conform  to  his  early  notions.  He 
hated  fashionable  slang,  despised  a  new-modelled  costume,  scorned 
modern  morality,  and  ranked  the  crime  of  wearing  a  moustache  and 
imperial  next  to  the  seven  deadly  sins.  His  standard  of  female 
perfection  was  a  certain  "  ladye-love"  of  his  youth,  who  might  have 
served  as  a  second  Harriet  Byron  to  some  new  Sir  Charles  Gran- 
dison.  After  a  courtship  of  ten  years  (during  which  time  he  never 
ventured  upon  a  greater  familiarity  than  that  of  pressing  the  tipa 
of  her  fingers  to  his  lips  on  a  New  Year's  day),  the  lady  died,  and 
the  memory  of  his  early  attachment,  though  something  like  a  rose 
encased  in  ice,  was  still  the  one  flower  of  his  life. 

Of  course,  the  freedom  of  modern  manners  was  shocking  to  him, 
and  in  Mrs.  Howard  he  beheld  the  impersonation  of  vanity, 
coquetry,  and  falsehood.  Besides,  she  interfered  with  his  privi 
leges.  She  made  suggestions  about  certain  arrangements  at  table ; 
she  pointed  out  improvements  in  several  minor  household  comforts ; 
she  asked  for  the  liver-wing  of  the  chicken,  which  had  heretofore 
been  his  peculiar  perquisite,  as  carver ;  she  played  the  accordeon, 
and  kept  an  Eolian  harp  in  the  window  of  her  room,  which  unfor 
tunately  adjoined  his ;  and,  to  crown  all,  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
ask  him  questions  as  coolly  as  if  she  was  totally  unconscious  of  his 
privileges  of  privacy.  He  certainly  had  a  most  decided  grudge 
against  the  lady,  and  she,  though  apparently  all  gentleness  and 
meekness,  yet  had  so  adroit  a  way  of  saying  and  doing  disagreea 
ble  things  to  the  old  gentleman,  that  it  was  easy  to  infer  a  mutual 
dislike. 

The  Captain's  benevolence  had  been  excited  by  seeing  Harry 
Maurice  on  the  highroad  to  being  victimized,  and  he  actually  took 
some  pains  to  make  the  young  man  see  things  in  their  true  light. 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Maurice,  do  you  spend  all  your  mornings  at  your 
office  ?"  said  he  one  day. 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

"  Then  you  differ  from  most  young  lawyers,"  was  the  gruff  reply. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  better  reasons  than  many  others  for  my  close 
application.  While  completing  my  studies,  I  am  enabled  to  earn 


136  EMMA   C.    EMBURY. 

a  moderate  salary  by  writing  for  Mr. ,  and  this  is  of  some 

consequence  to  me." 

The  old  man  looked  inquiringly,  and  Maurice  answered  the 
silent  question. 

"  You  know  enough  of  our  family,  sir,  to  be  aware  that  my 
father's  income  died  with  him.  A  few  hundred  dollars  per  annum 
are  all  that  remains  for  the  support  of  my  mother  and  an  invalid 
sister,  who  reside  in  Connecticut.  Of  course,  if  I  would  not 
encroach  upon  their  small  means,  I  must  do  something  for  my 
own  maintenance." 

The  Captain's  look  grew  pleasanter  as  he  replied,  "I  do  not 
mean  to  be  guilty  of  any  impertinent  intrusion  into  your  affairs, 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  share  the  weakness  of  your  fellows,  by 
thus  working  like  a  slave  and  spending  like  a  prince." 

Maurice  laughed.  "Perhaps  my  princely  expenditures  would 
scarcely  bear  as  close  a  scrutiny  as  my  slavish  toil.  I  really  work, 
but  it  often  happens  that  I  only  seem  to  spend." 

"  I  understand  you,  but  you  are  worthy  of  better  things  ;  you 
should  have  courage  to  throw  off  the  trammels  of  fashion,  and  live 
economically,  like  a  man  of  sense,  until  fortune  favours  you." 

The  young  man  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then,  as  if  to  change 
the  subject,  asked,  "  What  was  your  object  in  inquiring  about  my 
morning  walks?" 

"  I  merely  wanted  to  know  if  you  ever  met  Mrs.  Howard  in 
Broadway  in  the  morning." 

"  Never,  sir ;  but  I  am  so  seldom  there,  that  it  would  be  strange 
if  I  should  encounter  an  acquaintance  among  its  throngs." 

"  I  am  told  she  goes  out  every  morning  at  nine  o'clock,  and  does 
not  return  until  three." 

"I  suppose  she  is  fond  of  walking." 

"  Humph  !  I  rather  suspect  she  has  some  regular  business." 

"  Quite  likely,"  said  Maurice,  laughing  heartily,  "perhaps  she 
is  a  bank  clerk, — occupied  from  nine  to  three,  you  say, — just  bank 
ing  hours." 

The  Captain  looked  sternly  in  the  young  man's  face,  then  utter 
ing  his  emphatic  "Fudge!"  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  whistling 


"  A  Frog  he  would  a  wooing  go,"  sauntered  out  of  the  room, 
thoroughly  disgusted  with  the  whole  race  of  modern  young  men. 

The  old  gentleman's  methodical  habits  of  business  had  won  for 
him  the  confidence  of  every  one,  and  as  an  almost  necessary  con 
sequence  had  involved  him  in  the  responsibility  of  several  trustee 
ships.  There  were  sundry  old  ladies  and  orphans  whose  pecuniary 
affairs  he  had  managed  for  years  with  the  punctuality  of  a  Dutch 
clock.  Before  noon,  on  the  days  when  their  interest  moneys  were 
due,  he  always  had  the  satisfaction  of  paying  them  into  the  hands 
of  the  owners.  It  was  only  for  some  such  purpose  that  he  ever 
left  his  post  during  business  hours ;  but  the  claims  of  the  widow 
and  the  fatherless  came  before  those  of  the  ledger,  and  he  some 
times  stole  an  hour  from  his  daily  duties  to  attend  to  these  private 
trusts. 

Not  long  after  he  had  sought  to  awaken  his  young  friend's  suspi 
cions  respecting  Mrs.  Howard,  one  of  these  occasions  occurred. 
At  midday  he  found  himself  seated  in  a  pleasant  drawing-room, 
between  an  old  lady  and  a  young  one,  both  of  whom  regarded  him 
as  the  very  best  of  men.  He  had  transacted  his  business  and  was 
about  taking  leave,  when  he  was  detained  to  partake  of  a  lunch ; 
and,  while  he  was  engaged  in  washing  down  a  biscuit  with  a  glass 
of  octogenarian  Madeira,  the  young  lady  was  called  out  of  the  room. 
She  was  absent  about  fifteen  minutes,  and  when  she  returned, 
her  eyes  were  full  of  years.  A  pile  of  gold  lay  on  the  table 
(the  Captain  would  have  thought  it  ungentlemanlike  to  offer  dirty 
paper  to  ladies),  and  taking  a  five-dollar  piece  from  the  heap,  she 
again  vanished.  This  time  she  did  not  quite  close  the  door  behind 
her,  and  it  was  evident  she  was  conversing  with  some  claimant  upon 
her  charity.  Her  compassionate  tones  were  distinctly  heard  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  when  she  ceased  speaking,  a  remarkably  soft, 
clear,  liquid  voice  responded  to  her  kindness.  There  was  some 
thing  in  these  sounds  which  awakened  the  liveliest  interest  in  the 
old  gentleman.  He  started,  fidgeted  in  his  chair,  and  at  length, 
fairly  mastered  by  his  curiosity,  he  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  door.  He 
saw  only  a  drooping  figure,  clad  in  mourning,  and  veiled  from  head 
to  foot,  who,  repeating  her  thanks  to  her  young  benefactress, 

18 


138  EMMA   C.   EMBURY. 

gathered  up   a  roll  of  papers  from  the  hall  table,  and  withdrew 
before  he  could  obtain  a  glimpse  of  her  face. 

"  What  impostor  have  you  been  feeing  now  ?"  he  asked,  as  the 
young  lady  entered  the  room,  holding  in  her  hand  several  cheap 
French  engravings. 

"  No  impostor,  my  dear  sir,  but  a  most  interesting  woman." 
"  Oh,  I  dare  say  she  was  very  interesting  and  interested  too,  no 
doubt ;  but  how  do  you  know  she  was  no  swindler  ?" 
"  Because  she  shed  tears,  real  tears." 

"  Humph  !  I  suppose  she  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and 
snivelled." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  saw  the  big  drops  roll  down  her  cheeks,  and  I 
never  can  doubt  such  an  evidence  of  genuine  sorrow ;  people  can't 
force  tears." 

"What  story  could  she  tell  which  was  worth  five  dollars?" 
"  Her  husband,  who  was  an  importer  of  French  stationary  and 
engravings,  has  recently  died  insolvent,  leaving  her  burdened  with 
the  support  of  two  children  and  an  infirm  mother.  His  creditors 
have  seized  everything,  excepting  a  few  unsaleable  prints,  by  the 
sale  of  which  she  is  now  endeavouring  to  maintain  herself  inde 
pendently." 

"  Are  the  prints  worth  anything  ?" 
"Not  much." 

"  Then  she  is  living  upon  charity  quite  as  much  as  if  she  begged 
from  door  to  door ;  it  is  only  a  new  method  of  levying  contribu 
tions  upon  people  with  more  money  than  brains." 

"  The  truth  of  her  statement  is  easily  ascertained.  I  have  pro 
mised  to  visit  her,  and  if  I  find  her  what  she  seems,  I  shall  supply 
her  with  employment  as  a  seamstress." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  accompany  you  on  your  visit  ?" 
"  Certainly,  my  dear  sir,  upon  condition  that  if  you  find  her 
story  true,  you  will  pay  the  penalty  of  your  mistrust  in  the  shape 
of  a  goodly  donation." 

"  Agreed  !  I'll  pay  if  she  turns  out  to  be  an  object  of  charity. 
But  that  voice  of  hers, — I  don't  believe  there  are  two  such  voices  in 
this  great  city." 


EMMA   C.   EMBURY.  139 

What  notion  had  now  got  into  the  crotchety  head  of  the  Cap 
tain  no  one  could  tell ;  but  he  certainly  was  in  wonderful  spirits 
that  day  at  dinner.  He  was  in  such  good  humour  that  he  was  even 
civil  to  Mrs.  Howard,  and  sent  his  own  bottle  of  wine  to  Harry 
Maurice.  He  looked  a  little  confounded  when  Mrs.  Howard, 
taking  advantage  of  his  "  melting  mood,"  challenged  him  to  a 
game  at  backgammon,  and  it  was  almost  with  his  old  gruffness  that 
he  refused  her  polite  invitation.  He  waited  long  enough  to  see 
her  deeply  engaged  in  chess  with  her  young  admirer,  and  then 
hurried  away  to  fulfil  his  engagement  with  the  lady  who  had  pro 
mised  to  let  him  share  her  errand  of  mercy. 

He  was  doomed  to  be  disappointed,  however.  They  found  the 
house  inhabited  by  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Harley ;  it  was  a  low  one- 
story  rear  building,  in Street,  the  entrance  to  which  was 

through  a  covered  alley  leading  from  the  street.  It  was  a  neat, 
comfortable  dwelling,  and  the  butcher's  shop  in  front  of  it  screened 
it  entirely  from  public  view.  But  the  person  of  whom  they  were 
in  quest  was  not  at  home.  Her  mother  and  two  rosy  children, 
however,  seemed  to  corroborate  her  story,  and  as  the  woman  seemed 
disposed  to  be  rather  communicative,  the  old  gentleman  fancied  he 
had  now  got  upon  a  true  trail.  But  an  incautious  question  from 
him  sealed  the  woman's  lips,  and  he  found  himself  quite  astray 
again.  Finding  nothing  could  be  gained,  he  hurried  away,  and 
entering  his  own  door,  found  Mrs.  Howard  still  deeply  engaged  in 
her  game  of  chess,  though  she  did  look  up  with  a  sweet  smile  when 
she  saw  him. 

A  few  days  afterwards  his  young  friend  informed  him  that  she 
had  been  more  successful,  having  found  Mrs.  Harley  just  preparing 
to  go  out  on  her  daily  round  of  charity-seeking. 

When  suspicions  are  once  aroused  in  the  mind  of  a  man  like  the 
Captain,  it  is  strange  how  industriously  he  puts  together  the 
minutest  links  in  the  chain  of  evidence,  and  how  curiously  he 
searches  for  such  links,  as  if  the  unmasking  of  a  rogue  was  really 
a  matter  of  the  highest  importance.  The  Captain  began  to  grow 
more  reserved  and  incommunicative  than  ever.  He  uttered  oracu 
lar  apothegms  and  dogmatisms  until  he  became  positively  disagreea- 


140  EMMA   C.   EMBURY. 

ble,  and  at  last,  as  if  to  show  an  utter  aberration  of  mind,  he 
determined  to  obtain  leave  of  absence  for  a  week.  It  was  a  most 
remarkable  event  in  his  history,  and  as  such  excited  much  specula 
tion.  But  the  old  gentleman's  lips  were  closely  buttoned;  he 
quietly  packed  a  valise,  and  set  out  upon,  what  he  called,  a  country 
excursion. 

It  was  curious  to  notice  how  much  he  was  missed  in  the  house. 
Some  missed  his  kindliness  ;  some  his  quaint  humorousness ;  some 
his  punctuality,  by  which  they  set  their  watches  ;  and  Mrs.  Howard 
seemed  actually  to  feel  the  want  of  that  sarcastic  tone  which  made 
the  sauce  piquante  of  her  dainty  food.  Where  he  actually  went 
no  one  knew,  but  in  four  days  he  returned,  looking  more  bilious 
and  acting  more  crotchety  than  ever ;  but  with  an  exhilaration  of 
spirits  that  showed  the  marvellous  effect  of  country  air. 

The  day  after  his  return,  two  men,  wrapped  in  cloaks  and  wear 
ing  slouched  hats,  entered  the  butcher's  shop  in Street.  Giv 
ing  a  nod  in  passing  to  the  man  at  the  counter,  the  two  proceeded 
up  stairs,  and  took  a  seat  at  one  of  the  back  windows.  The  blinds 
were  carefully  drawn  down,  and  they  seated  themselves  as  if  to 
note  all  that  passed  in  the  low,  one-story  building,  which  opened 
upon  a  narrow  paved  alley  directly  beneath  the  window. 

"  Do  you  know  that  we  shall  have  a  fearful  settlement  to  make 
if  this  turns  out  to  be  all  humbug  ?"  said  the  younger  man,  as  they 
took  their  station. 

"Any  satisfaction  which  you  are  willing  to  claim,  I  am  ready  to 
make,  in  case  I  am  mistaken ;  but — look  there." 

As  he  spoke,  a  female  wearing  a  large  black  cloak  and  thick  veil 
entered  the  opposite  house.  Instantly  a  shout  of  joy  burst  from 
the  children,  and  as  the  old  woman  rose  to  drop  the  blind  at  the 
window,  they  caught  sight  of  the  two  merry  little  ones  pulling  at 
the  veil  and  cloak  of  the  mysterious  lady. 

"  Did  you  see  her  face?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"No,  it  was  turned  away  from  the  window." 

"  Then  have  patience  for  a  while." 

Nearly  an  hour  elapsed,  and  then  the  door  again  opened  to  admit 
the  egress  of  a  person,  apparently  less  of  stature  than  the  woman 


EMMA  C.   EMBURY.  141 

who  had  so  recently  entered,  more  drooping  in  figure,  and  clad  in 
rusty  and  shabby  mourning. 

"  One  more  kiss,  mamma,  and  don't  forget  the  sugar-plums  when 
you  come  back,"  cried  one  of  the  children. 

The  woman  stooped  to  give  the  required  kiss,  lifting  her  veil  as 
she  did  so,  and  revealing  the  whole  of  her  countenance.  A  groan 
burst  from  the  lips  of  one  of  the  watchers,  which  was  answered  by 
a  low  chuckle  from  his  companion ;  for  both  the  Captain  and  Harry 
Maurice  had  recognised  in  the  mysterious  lady  the  features  of  the 
bewitching  Mrs.  Howard. 

There  is  little  more  to  tell.  The  question  of  "Who  is  she?" 
now  needed  no  reply.  Mrs.  Howard,  Mrs.  Harley,  and  some  dozen 
other  aliases,  were  the  names  of  an  exceedingly  genteel  adventu 
ress,  who  is  yet  vividly  remembered  by  the  charitable  whom  she 
victimized  a  few  years  since.  She  had  resided  in  several  large 
cities,  and  was  drawing  a  very  handsome  income  from  her  ingenu 
ity.  Her  love  of  pleasure  being  as  great  as  her  taste  for  money- 
making,  she  devised  a  plan  for  living  two  lives  at  once,  and  her 
extreme  mobility  of  feature,  and  exquisite  adroitness,  enabled  her 
to  carry  out  her  schemes.  How  far  she  would  have  carried  the 
affair  with  her  young  lover  it  is  impossible  to  say,  but  the  probabi 
lity  is  that  the  "love  affair"  was  only  an  agreeable  episode  "pour 
passer  le  terns,"  and  that  whatever  might  have  been  the  gentle 
man's  intentions,  the  lady  was  guiltless  of  ulterior  views. 

The  Captain  managed  the  affair  his  own  way.  He  did  not  wish 
to  injure  the  credit  of  the  house,  which  he  designed  to  call  his  home 
for  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  therefore  Mrs.  Howard  received  a  quiet 
intimation  to  quit,  which  she  obeyed  with  her  usual  unruffled  sweet 
ness.  Harry  Maurice  paid  a  visit  to  his  mother  and  sister  in  the 
country,  and  on  his  return  found  it  desirable  to  change  his  lodgings. 
The  Captain  kept  the  story  to  himself  for  several  years,  but  after 
Maurice  was  married,  and  settled  in  his  domestic  habitudes,  he  felt 
himself  privileged  to  use  it  as  a  warning  to  all  gullible  young  men, 
against  bewitching  widows,  and  mysterious  fellow-boarders. 


MARY   S.   B.  SHINDLER. 

(LATE  MRS.  MARY  s.  B.  DANA.) 

THE  Southern  muse  has  had  few  harps  that  have  awakened  a  warmer 
echo  than  that  of  Mrs.  Mary  S.  B.  Dana,  now  Mrs.  Shindler.  Born  and 
nurtured  upon  Southern  soil,  her  fame  has  been  cherished  with  peculiar 
affection  in  the  region  of  her  birth,  while  her  name  has  been  no  unfami 
liar  or  unwelcome  guest  in  Northern  hearts  and  homes. 

Mrs.  Shindler  was  born  in  Beaufort,  South  Carolina,  February  15, 1810. 
Her  maiden  name  was  Mary  Stanley  Bunce  Palmer.  She  was  the  daugh 
ter  of  the  Rev.  Benjamin  M.  Palmer,  D.  D.,  who  at  the  time  of  her  birth 
was  pastor  of  the  Independent  or  Congregational  church  in  Beaufort.  In 
1814  her  parents  removed  to  Charleston,  her  father  having  been  called  to 
the  charge  of  the  Independent  church  in  that  city.  Her  father's  congre 
gation  consisted  principally  of  planters  of  the  neighbourhood,  who  spent 
their  summers  in  the  city,  and  their  winters  upon  their  plantations. 

In  reference  to  this  period  of  her  life,  Mrs.  Shindler  remarks,  "  I  well 
remember  the  delight  with  which  we  children  used  to  anticipate  our  spring 
and  Christmas  holidays,  which  we  were  sure  to  spend  upon  some  neigh 
bouring  plantation,  released  from  all  our  city  trammels,  running  perfectly 
wild,  as  all  city  children  were  expected  to  do,  contracting  sudden  and  vio 
lent  intimacies  in  all  the  negro  houses  about  Easter  and  Christmas  times, 
that  we  might  have  a  store  of  eggs  for  sundry  purposes,  for  which  we  gave 
in  exchange  the  most  gaudy  cotton  handkerchiefs  that  could  be  bought  in 
Charleston.  It  was  during  these  delightful  rural  visits  that  what  little 
poetry  I  have  in  my  nature  was  fostered  and  developed,  and  at  an  early 
age  I  became  sensible  of  a  something  within  me  which  often  brought  tears 
into  my  eyes  when  I  could  not,  for  the  life  of  me,  express  my  feelings. 
The  darkness  and  loneliness  of  our  vast  forests  filled  me  with  indescribable 
emotions,  and  above  all  other  sounds,  the  music  of  the  thousand  Eolian 

(142) 


MARY  S.    B.   SHINDLER.  143 

harps  sighing  and  wailing  through  a  forest  of  pines,  was  most  affecting  to 
my  youthful  heart." 

Besides  the  advantage  of  the  best  Southern  society,  she  had  also  the 
opportunity  of  most  extensive  acquaintance  with  clergymen  and  others 
from  various  Northern  States — the  hospitality  of  her  parents  being 
unbounded. 

She  was  educated  by  the  Misses  Ramsay,  the  daughters  of  Dr.  David 
Ramsay,  the  historian,  and  grand-daughters,  on  the  maternal  side,  of  Mr. 
Laurens,  who  figured  so  conspicuously  in  the  early  history  of  our  Inde 
pendence.  The  summer  of  1825  her  parents  spent  in  Hartford,  Conn.,  and 
she  was  placed  for  six  months  at  the  seminary  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Emerson, 
in  the  neighbouring  town  of  Wethersfield.  In  1826  she  was  placed  at  a 
young  ladies'  seminary  in  Elizabethtown,  New  Jersey,  with  the  expecta 
tion  of  remaining  eighteen  months,  in  the  hope  that  so  long  a  residence 
in  the  North  would  invigorate  her  constitution,  which  was  rather  delicate; 
but  she  pined  for  her  Southern  home,  and  at  the  expiration  of  six  months 
was  allowed  to  return  to  the  arms  of  her  parents.  She  subsequently  spent 
several  months  at  the  seminary  of  the  Rev.  Claudius  Herrick,  in  New 
Haven. 

On  the  19th  of  June,  1835,  she  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  Charles  E. 
Dana,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  city  of  New  York,  where  they  resided 
for  two  or  three  years.  During  this  time  she  occasionally  wrote  little 
pieces  of  poetry,  but  did  not  publish  them.  Before  her  marriage,  how 
ever,  she  had  written  considerably  for  the  "  Rose-Bud,"  a  juvenile  period 
ical  published  in  Charleston  by  Mrs.  Grilman. 

The  tone  of  subdued  melancholy  that  pervades  her  first  publications  is 
explained  by  the  sad  story  of  her  afflictions,  which  can  be  told  in  no  way 
so  well  as  in  her  own  simple  and  affecting  language. 

"  In  the  fall  of  the  year  1838,"  says  she,  in  a  letter  now  before  me, 
"  accompanied  by  my  parents,  we  removed  to  the  West.  I  was  then  the 
mother  of  a  beautiful  boy,  who  was  born  in  May,  1837.  We  spent  the 
winter  in  Cincinnati,  and,  as  soon  as  the  river  rose  in  the  spring,  we  all 
went  to  New  Orleans.  While  in  that  city,  a  letter  was  received  from 
Alabama,  acquainting  my  parents  with  the  fact  that  my  only  brother,  who 
was  a  physician,  and  was  on  a  tour  of  inspection  for  the  purpose  of  finding  a 
pleasant  location  for  the  practice  of  his  profession,  was  in  Greene  county, 
sick,  and  failing  rapidly.  A  favourite  sister  had  died  of  consumption  at 
my  house  in  New  York,  just  a  week  after  the  birth  of  our  little  boy,  and 
the  news  of  my  brother's  illness  filled  us  with  the  saddest  apprehensions. 
The  letter,  too,  bore  rather  an  old  date,  having  first  being  mailed  to  Cin 
cinnati,  and  forwarded  from  thence  to  New  Orleans.  My  afflicted  parents 
immediately  hastened  to  the  spot,  but  they  arrived  too  late  even  to  take 
a  last  fond  look  upon  their  only  son.  He  had  been  buried  several  days 


144  MARY  S.   B.    SHINDLER. 

when  they  arrived.  Almost  heart-broken,  yet  submissive  to  the  dreadful 
stroke,  they  returned  to  New  Orleans,  but  instead  of  accompanying  us  in 
our  western  journey,  they  decided  to  return  to  Charleston. 

"  In  a  short  time  we  also  embarked  in  a  steamer  for  St.  Louis,  where  we 
remained  for  a  month  or  six  weeks.  We  then  ascended  the  Mississippi  as 
far  as  Bloomington,  Iowa ;  at  which  place  we  landed,  and  we  were  so  much 
pleased  with  the  appearance  of  the  place,  that  we  decided  on  spending  the 
summer  there.  The  place  had  been  settled  about  three  years,  and  con 
tained  nearly  or  quite  three  hundred  inhabitants,  and  had,  so  far,  proved 
quite  healthy.  But  the  summer  of  1839  was  a  very  sickly  one.  There 
was  a  long-continued  drought;  the  Mississippi  river  was  unusually  low, 
and  the  consequence  was  the  prevalence  of  congestive  fevers  in  all  that 
region.  Indeed,  throughout  the  whole  "West  and  South,  it  was  a  summer 
long  to  be  remembered. 

"  I  was  the  first  to  take  the  fever,  and  had  scarcely  recovered,  when  our 
little  Charlie,  our  only  child,  became  alarmingly  ill.  The  only  experienced 
physician  in  the  village  was  likewise  ill,  so  that  we  laboured  under  a 
serious  disadvantage.  After  lingering  for  a  fortnight  the  dear  little  fellow 
died.  Two  days  before  his  death,  my  husband  was  taken  with  the  same 
fever,  and  also  died,  after  an  illness  of  only  four  days.  Nothing  but  the 
consolations  of  religion  could  have  supported  me  under  this  double  bereave 
ment.  Left  entirely  alone,  thousands  of  miles  away  from  every  relative  I 
had  on  earth,  there  was  no  human  arm  on  which  I  could  lean,  and  I  was 
to  rely  on  God  alone.  It  was  well,  perhaps,  for  me,  that  I  was  just  so 
situated.  It  has  taught  me  a  lesson  that  I  have  never  forgotten,  that  our 
heavenly  Father  will  never  lay  upon  us  a  heavier  burthen  than  he  will 
give  us  strength  to  bear.  And  here  I  must  record  my  warm  and  grateful 
tribute  to  the  genuine  kindness  and  sympathy  of  Western  hearts.  If  I 
had  been  among  my  own  kindred,  I  could  not  have  received  more  earnest 
and  affectionate  attention. 

"  As  soon  as  I  could  settle  my  affairs,  and  find  suitable  protection,  I 
started  for  my  distant  home,  longing  to  lay  my  aching  head  on  the  bosom 
of  my  own  dear  mother,  and  to  be  encircled  in  my  father's  arms. 

"  I  was  received  in  St.  Louis  with  the  greatest  kindness,  and  remained 
there  for  a  week.  Placed  under  the  charge  of  a  kind  physician,  we  took 
a  steamer  for  Cincinnati,  but  found  the  river  so  low,  it  would  be  next  to 
impossible  to  reach  there.  After  sticking  fast  upon  every  sand-bar  we 
encountered  for  a  day  or  two,  the  captain  all  the  while  assuring  us  that 
we  should  soon  arrive  at  Cincinnati,  we  determined  to  take  advantage  of 
the  first  boat  that  passed  us,  and  return  to  the  Mississippi.  Nor  was  it 
long  before  we  were  enabled  to  put  this  design  into  execution. 

"  In  New  Orleans  the  fever  was  raging  to  an  alarming  degree.  My 
kind  protector  had  now  reached  his  home,  and  could  accompany  me  no 


MARY  S.    B.   SHINDLER.  145 

further,  and  I  could  hear  of  no  one  who  was  going  in  my  direction  at  that 
season  of  the  year — the  human  tide  was  all  setting  the  other  way.  At 
length  a  friend  called  to  inform  me  that  a  schooner  was  about  to  sail  for 
Pensacola.  Knowing  my  intense  anxiety  to  reach  home,  he  had  called  to 
let  me  know  of  the  opportunity,  thinking  that  from  Pensacola  I  would  be 
able  to  reach  Charleston  without  difficulty,  though,  for  his  own  part,  he 
strongly  advised  me  not  to  attempt  going  in  the  schooner.  But  I  had 
grown  desperate,  and  caught  eagerly  at  the  proposal.  Accordingly,  that 
very  afternoon,  I  was  conducted  to  the  schooner  by  my  friend,  and  intro 
duced  to  the  captain,  who  kindly  promised  to  take  good  care  of  me.  I 
must  confess  my  heart  almost  failed  me  when,  after  crossing  the  deck  on 
the  tops  of  barrels,  with  which  the  vessel  was  loaded,  I  dived  into  a  cabin, 
dark,  low,  and  musty,  and  found  that  I  was  the  only  female  on  board. 

"  But  the  case  was  a  desperate  one,  and  I  submitted  to  necessity,  but 
bade  my  friend  f  farewell '  with  a  heavy  heart.  We  were  towed  down  the 
canal  by  horses  to  the  entrance  of  Lake  Ponchartrain,  where  we  were 
quietly  to  lie  till  the  next  morning.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  sufferings 
of  that  dreadful  night.  The  cabin  was  infested  with  roaches  of  an  enor 
mous  size,  and  as  soon  as  candles  were  lighted,  they  came  out  of  their 
hiding-places  by  hundreds  and  thousands,  and  literally  covered  the  bed 
where  I  was  to  sleep.  Mosquitos  also  were  swarming  around ;  but  this 
was  not  all.  1  was  taken  so  ill  that  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  not  live  till 
morning.  I  shudder  even  now  when  I  think  of  it. 

"  By  daylight  I  called  the  captain  to  my  side  and  begged  him  to  get 
me  back  to  the  city.  He  said  there  was  a  schooner  which  had  just  come 
in  from  the  lake,  and  was  going  up  to  the  city,  and  offered  to  put  me 
aboard  of  her.  I  joyfully  consented,  and  he  took  me  in  his  arms  like  an 
infant,  carried  me  on  board  of  the  newly-arrived  schooner,  and  seated  me 
in  a  chair  on  a  pile  of  wet  boards,  of  which  her  cargo  appeared  to  consist. 
After  two  or  three  hours  of  intense  suffering,  for  I  was  really  very  sick, 
I  once  more  reached  my  friends  in  New  Orleans,  who  were  overjoyed  to 
see  me,  and  who  fully  determined  to  prevent  me,  by  force,  if  necessary, 
from  making  any  more  such  travelling  experiments.  In  a  few  days  the 
steamer  between  New  Orleans  and  Pascagoula  commenced  running,  and 
finding  company,  I  at  length  reached  home  in  safety." 

To  give  herself  mental  occupation,  she  now  began  to  indulge  in  literary 
pursuits.  She  had  always  been  very  fond  of  music,  and  finding  very  little 
piano  music  that  was  suitable  for  Sunday  playing,  she  had  for  several 
years  been  in  the  habit  of  adapting  sacred  words  to  any  song  which  par 
ticularly  pleased  her.  To  wean  her  from  her  sorrows,  her  parents  encou 
raged  her  to  continue  the  practice,  and  this  was  the  origin  of  the  first 
work  she  published,  "  The  Southern  Harp."  At  first  she  had  no  idea  of 
publishing  these  little  effusions,  but  having  written  quite  a  number  of 
them,  she  was  advised  to  print  a  few  for  the  use  of  herself  and  friends. 
19 


146  MARY   S.    B.   SHINDLER. 

The  work,  however  grew  under  her  hands,  till  finally,  becoming  much 
interested  in  the  design,  she  decided  to  publish,  not  only  the  words,  but 
the  music.  She  visited  New  York  for  this  purpose  in  1840,  and  the  work 
appeared  early  in  1841. 

She  now  used  her  pen  almost  incessantly.  It  is  not  wonderful  that  her 
thoughts  ran  principally  upon  the  subject  of  affliction,  nor  that  the  scenes 
through  which  she  had  passed  during  her  short  sojourn  at  the  West,  should 
have  formed  the  theme  of  her  muse. 

In  the  summer  of  1841  she  again  visited  New  York  for  the  purpose  of 
publishing  a  volume  of  poems.  This  appeared  under  the  title  of  "  The 
Parted  Family,  and  other  Poems. "  She  undertook,  also,  at  the  request 
of  her  publishers,  to  prepare  another  volume  similar  in  design  to  the 
"  Southern  Harp/'  to  be  published  under  the  title  of  the  "  Northern 
Harp."  Both  of  these  publications  succeeded  well.  They  passed  through 
several  large  editions,  and  in  a  pecuniary  way  were  very  profitable,  more 
than  twenty-five  thousand  copies  having  been  sold. 

Her  next  publication  was  a  prose  work,  entitled  "  Charles  Morton ;  or, 
the  Young  Patriot;"  a  tale  of  the  American  Kevolution.  This,  also,  was 
very  successful.  It  was  issued  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  1843. 

She  next  published  two  tales  for  seamen.  The  title  of  the  first  was 
"  The  Young  Sailor,"  and  of  the  other,  "  Forecastle  Tom." 

About  this  time  she  experienced  a  change  in  her  religious  views,  which 
attracted  considerable  attention,  and  led  to  her  next  publication.  She 
had  been  bred  a  Calvinist,  but  during  the  year  1844  she  began  to  enter 
tain  doubts  about  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  and  finally,  to  the  grief  of 
her  revered  parents,  and  numerous  friends,  early  in  the  year  1845,  she 
avowed  herself  a  Unitarian. 

The  matter  having  become  one  of  some  notoriety,  she  felt  called  upon 
to  publish  a  volume  of  "  Letters  to  Relatives  and  Friends,"  stating  the 
process  through  which  her  mind  had  passed.  This,  by  far  the  largest  of 
her  prose  volumes,  appeared  in  Boston,  in  the  fall  of  1845,  and  was  re- 
published  in  London.  It  went  through  several  editions,  and  was  finally 
stereotyped. 

In  1847  she  wrote  several  "  Southern  Sketches,"  the  first  of  which 
appeared  in  the  "  Union  Magazine"  for  October  of  that  year. 

At  this  time  another  severe  affliction  befell  her.  This  was  the  sudden 
death,  within  two  or  three  weeks  of  each  other,  of  both  her  parents,  at 
Orangeburg,  South  Carolina. 

On  the  18th  of  May,  1848,  she  became  united  in  marriage  to  her  pre 
sent  husband,  the  Rev.  Robert  D.  Shindler,  a  clergyman  of  the  Episcopal 
Church.  Her  views  on  the  subject  of  the  Trinity  have  also  experienced 
a  change,  or  rather  have  reverted  to  their  original  condition,  and  she  is 
now  in  communion  with  the  church  of  her  husband. 


MARY   S.   B.    SHINDLER.  147 

In  April,  1850,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shindler  removed  to  Upper  Marlboro', 
Maryland,  near  to  his  native  place,  which  was  Shephardstown,  Virginia. 

In  August,  1851,  they  removed  to  Shelbyville,  Kentucky,  Mr.  Shindler 
having  accepted  a  Professorship  in  Shelby  College. 


A  DAY  IN  NEW  YORK. 

HERE  I  am  in  New  York — the  great,  busy,  bustling  world  of 
New  York ;  and  after  my  year's  rustication  in  a  quiet  Southern 
village,  you  may  be  sure  that  my  poor  little  head  is  almost  turned ! 
Even  now,  while  I  am  writing,  there  is  a  diabolical  hand-organ, 
grinding  under  the  window  its  mechanical  music,  with  a  disgusting 
little  monkey — a  caricature  upon  poor  humanity — playing  its  "fan 
tastic  tricks  before  high  heaven !"  Do  not,  I  entreat  you,  suppose 
me  in  a  pet,  for  after  all,  I  acknowledge  that  hand-organs,  and 
even  monkeys,  have  their  uses,  as  well  as  their  abuses,  and  may, 
by  a  serious  philosophizing  mind,  be  turned  to  very  good  account; 
but,  just  at  this  moment,  I  may  perhaps  be  pardoned  for  wishing 
them  somewhere  else. 

Ah  !  now  comes  a  band  of  music — real  music  !  breathed  through 
various  instruments  by  the  breath  of  human  beings,  playing  in 
accordance,  keeping  mutual  time,  obeying  the  same  harmonious 
impulses,  now  delighting  the  ear  and  affecting  the  heart  by  a  soft 
and  plaintive  strain,  and  now  stirring  the  spirit  by  a  burst  of  mar 
tial  melody ;  yes,  that  is  music ;  there  is  mind,  there  is  soul,  there 
is  impulse,  there  is  character  in  what  I  now  hear,  and  you  must 
excuse  me  while  I  hasten  to  the  open  window,  and  linger  there  till 
I  catch  the  faintest  echo  of  the  rapidly-retreating  harmony. 
There  !  It  is  gone — like  so  many  of  life's  pleasures — only  to  linger 
in  the  memory.  Well !  God  be  praised  for  that ! 

Day  before  yesterday  I  visited  Greenwood,  your  beautiful  ceme 
tery.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  reveal  to  you  all  the  secret  and  varied 
workings  of  the  mind  within,  as  I  wandered  with  a  chosen  friend— 
a  kindred  spirit — through  that  beautiful  and  consecrated  ground. 
Thoughts  too  big  for  utterance — too  spiritual  and  mysterious  to  be 
clothed  in  words — came  crowding  thick  and  fast  upon  me,  till  at 
length  I  could  contain  myself  no  longer,  and  the  tide  of  softened 


148  MARY   S.    B.    SHINDLER. 

feeling  overflowed  its  barriers ;  for  tears,  not  bitter  tears,  came 
trickling  down  each  cheek.  To  add  to  the  solemn  interest  of  the 
occasion,  the  bell  was  tolling  for  a  funeral.  It  was  the  funeral  of 
a  little  Southern  boy,  who  had  died  while  pursuing  his  studies  in 
one  of  the  city  schools.  His  young  school  companions,  all  in  uni 
form,  and  each  with  a  badge  of  mourning  hanging  from  the  left 
elbow,  marched  solemnly  and  silently  to  deposit  the  mortal  remains 
of  the  youthful  stranger  in  his  Northern  grave  !  My  busy  mind 
instantly  wandered  to  his  home  and  mine,  in  the  land  of  the  sunny 
South  !  Had  he  a  father  ?  Had  he  a  mother  ?  Had  he  brothers 
and  sisters  who  were  yet  to  learn  the  mournful  tidings  that  the 
dear  little  fellow  who  had  left  them,  recently  perhaps,  in  all  the 
healthful  buoyancy  of  his  young  existence,  had  closed  his  eyes  in 
a  land  of  strangers,  and  was  sleeping  his  last  sleep  so  far  away 
from  his  Southern  home  ?  Or,  was  he  an  orphan,  whose  young 
days  had  been  shaded  by  sorrow  ?  Then,  perhaps,  he  had  gone  to 
join  the  sainted  dead !  Then,  perhaps,  he  had  gone  to  complete  a 
family  in  heaven !  Glorious,  delightful,  soothing  thought !  At 
any  rate,  I  knew  that  his  young  spirit  was  in  the  keeping  of  an 
infinitely-merciful  Father,  and  there,  well  cared  for,  I  was  content 
to  leave  the  little  Southern  boy. 

Near  the  entrance,  sat  a  lady  clad  in  the  habiliments  of  the 
deepest  mourning.  She  had  been,  probably,  or  was  going,  to  the 
grave  of  some  loved  one,  "to  weep  there,"  as  Jesus  did  !  She  had 
been  mitigating  or  increasing  the  pangs  of  separation  by  the  views 
and  feelings  she  had  been  indulging  at  that  loved  one's  grave  ! 
Perhaps  her  sorrow  was  a  sanctified  sorrow,  and  she  had  meekly 
yielded  up  the  chosen  one  of  her  heart,  at  the  summons  of  her 
Heavenly  Father,  resolved  to  wait  patiently  for  the  period  of  a 
blissful  reunion.  If  so,  she  had  experienced  the  truth  of  the 
Saviour's  words — "Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be 
comforted  !"  But  if  not,  if,  in  the  insanity  of  grief,  she  had  been 
dwelling  on  the  past,  disregarding  the  injunction  of  the  apostle  to 
forget  the  things  which  are  behind,  and  press  forward  to  those 
which  are  before,  how  doubly  was  she  to  be  pitied !  Ah,  mourning 
heart !  didst  thou  but  know  that  when  we  view  the  matter  rightly, 


MARY   S.    B.    SHINDLER.  149 

the  dead  are  with  us,  more  potently  and  beneficially  than  they 
were  in  life,  thy  sorrow  would  be  turned  into  a  pensive  joy,  creating 
within  thee  and  around  thee  precious  and  purifying  influences ! 

I  pass  by  the  splendid  monuments  which  attract  the  attention 
of  every  stranger,  to  mention  one  which  arrested  my  footsteps  by 
its  exceeding  simplicity  and  beauty.  It  was  a  plain  white  marble 
shaft,  upon  which  was  inscribed  one  single  word,  and  that  was 
"MARY."  I  always  loved  the  name,  but  was  never  before  so 
struck  with  its  unpretending  beauty.  It  was  the  name  of  the 
virgin-mother  of  our  Lord,  it  was  the  name  of  her  whom  Jesus 
loved,  and  of  the  erring  one  whose  pardon  he  pronounced  so  gra 
ciously.  And  here  it  was,  to  designate  the  resting-place  of  a 
youthful  wife  who  had  but  recently  departed  to  her  eternal  home. 
What  a  world  of  meaning  must  that  one  word  convey  to  the 
bereaved  husband,  when,  solitary  as  he  must  be  now,  his  lonely 
footsteps  seek  that  sacred  spot !  Let  me  tell  thee,  sorrowing  hus 
band,  thy  Mary  is  not  lost  to  thee,  she  has  but  "gone  before;" 
and  if  thou  hearest  and  heedest  well  the  voice  which  issues  from 
that  marble  tablet,  it  shall  be  well  with  thee !  They  never  can  be 
lost  to  us,  whose  memories  we  love ! 

Here  lie  thine  ashes,  dearest  Mary ! 

While  thy  spirit  shines  above ; 
And  this  earth  so  fresh  and  verdant, 

But  reminds  us  of  thy  love. 

Those  who  knew  thy  heart,  sweet  Mary ! 

Knew  how  pure  its  throbbings  were  ; 
O'er  that  heart,  which  throbs  no  longer, 

Memory  sheds  her  purest  tear. 

Yes,  the  tender  mourning,  Mary ! 

And  the  blank  felt  in  thy  home, 
Live  as  freshly  in  our  bosoms 

As  the  rose-leaves  o'er  thy  tomb. 

Thou  wert  ever  gentle,  Mary ! 

All  our  comfort  and  our  pride ; 
Now  that  thou  art  gone  to  heaven, 

Oh !  to  heaven  our  spirits  guide  I 


150  MARY    S.    B.    SHINDLER. 

Be  our  guardian  angel,  Mary! 

Be  our  brilliant  polar  star  ! 
From  earth's  storms,  and  clouds,  and  darkness, 

Lead  us  to  bright  realms  afar. 

And  when  from  earth's  loud  turmoil,  Mary ! 

To  this  holy  spot  we  turn, 
Let  the  mem'ry  of  thy  meekness 

Teach  us,  loved  one,  how  to  mourn ! 

I  saw,  too,  the  monument  which  has  been  recently  erected  over 
the  grave  of  Dr.  Abeel,  the  Chinese  missionary.  I  knew  and  loved 
him  well,  and  yet  my  feelings,  when  I  stood  beside  his  grave,  had 
not  a  tinge  of  sadness  !  Indeed,  why  should  they  have  ?  He  had 
fought  the  good  fight,  he  had  finished  his  course,  he  had  kept  the 
faith,  and  I  knew  that  he  was  in  actual  possession  of  his  crown  of 
glory !  It  was,  then,  a  time  and  a  place  for  joy  and  for  triumph, 
and  not  for  mourning  and  despondency.  The  Christian  hero  had 
gone  to  his  reward,  was  that  a  cause  for  sadness  ? 

I  have  not  emptied  my  heart  of  half  its  tide  of  feeling,  but  I  must 
forbear ;  time  would  fail  me,  and  perhaps  your  patience  also,  were 
I  to  attempt  it.  Have  you  ever  noticed,  in  your  Greenwood  ram 
bles,  a  deeply-shaded  spot,  most  appropriately  labelled  "  Twilight 
Dell?"  'Tis  there  I  would  like  to  lay  my  weary  head,  when  the 
toils  and  cares  of  life  are  over  !  Next  to  a  grave  in  the  far-distant 
West,  where  some  of  my  loved  ones  sleep,  or  in  my  own  Southern 
home,  where  my  kindred  lie,  would  I  prefer  one  in  the  beautifully- 
shaded  Twilight  Dell  of  Greenwood. 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ. 


Miss  CAROLINE  LEE  WHITING  (the  maiden  name  of  Mrs.  Hentz)  was 
born  in  the  romantic  village  of  Lancaster,  Massachusetts.  She  is  the 
sister  of  the  brave  General  Whiting,  distinguished  alike  for  his  literary 
attainments,  and  for  his  services  in  the  army  of  the  United  States.  She 
was  married  in  1823,  at  Northampton,  to  Mr.  N.  M.  Hentz,  a  French 
gentleman  of  rich  and  varied  talents,  who  then  conducted  a  seminary  of 
education  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Bancroft,  the  historian.  In  the  early 
days  of  their  married  life,  Mr.  Hentz  was  appointed  Professor  in  the  Col 
lege  at  Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina.  He  accepted  the  honourable  post, 
and  remained  there  several  years.  Thence  they  removed  to  Covington, 
Kentucky,  where  she  wrote  the  tragedy  of  "De  Lara,  or  the  Moorish 
Bride."  This  play  was  oifered  as  a  competitor  for  a  prize  of  five  hundred 
dollars,  and  was  successful.  It  was  performed  at  the  Arch  Street  Theatre, 
Philadelphia,  and  I  believe  elsewhere,  with  much  applause,  and  for  several 
successive  nights.  The  copyright  having  reverted  to  Mrs.  Hentz,  it  was 
subsequently  published  in  book  form. 

The  family,  after  living  awhile  at  Covington,  removed  to  Cincinnati, 
and  thence  to  Florence,  Alabama.  At  this  latter  place  they  had  for  nine 
years  a  flourishing  Female  Academy,  which  in  1843  they  transferred  to 
Tuscaloosa,  and  again  in  1845  to  Tuskegee,  and  once  more  in  1848  to 
Columbus,  Georgia,  where  they  now  reside.  The  exhausting  labours  of 
their  school,  much  of  which  fell  upon  Mrs.  Hentz,  caused  her  for  several 
years  almost  to  suspend  the  exercise  of  her  pen.  It  is  understood  that  she 
has  recently  made  arrangements  which  will  give  her  leisure  for  the  more 
free  exercise  of  her  extraordinary  gifts  as  a  writer. 

Besides  the  tragedy  already  named,  Mrs.  Hentz  has  written  two  others, 
"  Lamorah,  or  the  Western  Wilds,"  published  in  a  Columbus  newspaper, 
and  "  Constance  of  Wirtemburg,"  which  has  not  yet  seen  the  light.  She 

(151) 


152  CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ. 

has  published  many  fugitive  pieces  of  poetry,  which  have  been  widely 
copied. 

Her  prose  writings  have  been  chiefly  in  the  form  of  novelettes  for  the 
weekly  papers  and  the  monthly  magazines.  After  a  wide  circulation  in 
this  form,  they  have  been  generally  reprinted  as  books,  and  enjoyed  the 
eclat  of  numerous  editions.  They  are  "  Aunt  Patty's  Scrap  Bag,"  1846 ; 
"  The  Mob  Cap,"  1848 ;  "  Linda,  or  the  Young  Pilot  of  the  Belle  Creole," 
1850;  and  "Rena,  or  the  Snowbird,"  1851. 

Every  one  practically  conversant  with  the  art  of  composition,  knows 
that  those  works  which,  to  the  uninitiated,  seem  to  have  been  written 
currente  calamo — dashed  off  at  full  speed — are  ordinarily  the  fruit  of  slow 
and  patient  labour.  Mrs.  Hentz  appears  to  be  an  exception  to  this  rule. 
The  spontaneousness  and  freedom  so  apparent  in  her  style  are  a  true  ex 
ponent  of  her  habit  of  composition.  Her  happy  facility  in  this  respect 
reminds  us  of  that  most  remarkable  poetical  improvisatrice,  Mrs.  Osgood. 
Mrs.  Hentz,  if  we  may  credit  authentic  information,  writes  in  the  midst 
of  her  domestic  circle,  and  subject  to  constant  interruptions,  yet  with  the 
greatest  rapidity,  and  with  a  degree  of  accuracy  that  seldom  requires,  as 
it  never  receives  revision. 

One  long  an  inmate  of  the  household,  writes  to  me  on  this  subject,  as 
follows :  "  What  has  often  struck  me  with  wonder  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Hentz, 
is  the  remarkable  ease  with  which  she  writes.  When  a  leisure  moment 
presents  itself,  she  takes  up  her  pen,  as  others  do  their  knitting,  and  it 
dances  swiftly  over  the  paper,  as  if  in  vain  trying  to  keep  up  with  the 
current  of  her  thoughts.  <  Aunt  Patty's  Scrap  Bag'  was  written  while 
I  was  living  in  the  family,  and  as  at  evening  I  sat  at  her  table,  I  read  it 
sheet  by  sheet,  ere  the  ink  was  dry  from  her  pen,  and  on  every  page  I  saw, 
in  the  record  of  the  affectionate  family  of  the  WTorths,  and  particularly  in 
the  tender  relations  between  Mrs.  Worth  and  her  daughters,  a  faithful 
transcript  of  the  author's  own  heart. 

"  Pardon  me  if  I  introduce  a  few  lines  which  she  dashed  off  hastily  for 
me,  while  I  stood  waiting  for  the  coach,  the  day  I  left  her  at  Tuskegee. 
Though  simple,  they  are  in  many  respects  a  comment  upon  her  heart,  and 
the  chief  object  of  her  pen.  I  give  them  from  memory. 

"May  this  ring,  when  it  circles  thy  finger,  remind 
Thy  heart  of  the  friends  thou  art  leaving  behind — 
I  have  breathed  on  its  gold  a  magical  spell — 
That,  in  long  after  years,  of  this  moment  shall  tell. 

"Should  snares  and  temptations  around  thee  entwine, 
May  the  gem  on  thy  finger  with  warning  rays  shine — 
And  whisper  of  one  whose  spirit  would  mourn 
If  thou  from  the  pathway  of  virtue  should  turn. 


CAROLINE   LEE   HENTZ.  153 

"Like  the  eaglet,  that  fixes  its  gaze  on  the  sun, 
Press  upward  and  on  till  the  bright  goal  is  won — 
Let  the  wings  of  thy  soul  never  pause  in  their  flight, 
Till  they  bear  thee  to  regions  of  glory  and  light." 

"  Mrs.  Hentz's  ring  gave  me  many  a  useful  and  effective  warning  in  my 
following  school  and  college  days.  It  has  indeed  been  to  me  a  <  talisman 
preserving/  " 

I  am  indebted  to  an  accomplished  lady  of  Mobile*  for  the  following 
additional  particulars  in  relation  to  Mrs.  Hentz. 

"  Some  writer  has  said  '  Authors  should  be  read — not  known/  Mrs. 
Hentz  forms  a  bright  exception  to  this  remark.  She  is  one  of  those  rare 
magnetic  women  who  attracted  my  entire  admiration  at  our  first  interview. 
The  spell  she  wove  around  me  was  like  the  invisible  beauty  of  music.  I 
yielded  willingly  and  delightfully  to  its  magic  influence. 

"  Never  have  I  met  a  more  fascinating  person.  Mind  is  enthroned  on 
her  noble  brow,  and  beams  in  the  flashing  glances  of  her  radiant  eyes. 
She  is  tall,  graceful  and  dignified,  with  that  high-bred  manner  which  ever 
betokens  gentle  blood. 

"  She  has  infinite  tact  and  talent  in  conversation,  and  never  speaks 
without  awakening  interest.  As  I  listened  to  her  eloquent  language,  I 
felt  she  was  indeed  worthy  of  the  wreath  of  immortality,  which  fame  has 
given  in  other  days,  and  other  lands,  to  a  De  Genlis,  or  to  a  De  Sevigne*. 

"  She  possesses  great  enthusiasm  of  character — the  enthusiasm  described 
by  Madame  De  Stael  as,  '  God  within  us,' — the  love  of  the  good,  the  holy, 
the  beautiful.  .  She  has  neither  pretension  nor  pedantry,  and,  although 
admirably  accomplished,  and  a  perfect  classic  and  belles  lettres  scholar, 
she  has  all  the  sweet  simplicity  of  an  elegant  woman. 

"  Like  the  charming  Swedish  authoress,  Fredrika  Bremer,  her  works 
all  tend  to  elevate  the  tone  of  moral  feeling.  There  is  a  refinement,  deli 
cacy,  and  poetic  imagery  in  all  her  historiettes  touchmgly  delightful.  A 

*  Madam  Octavia  Walton  Le  Vert.  "  This  accomplished  lady  has  for  many 
years  dispensed  the  refined  and  elegant  hospitalities  of  Mobile,  and  is  the  centre 
of  a  circle  unsurpassed  for  its  wit,  worth,  and  intelligence.  She  is  the  daughter 
of  the  no  less  celebrated  Colonel  George  Walton,  formerly  Governor  of  Florida, 
who  now  is,  we  believe,  the  only  surviving  son  of  a  signer  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence." — (Editor  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Times.) 

Though  Madam  Le  Vert  has  not  appeared  before  the  world  as  an  authoress, 
no  lady  in  the  Southern  States  has  been  more  admired  for  her  fascinating  powers 
of  conversation,  and  for  those  brilliant  accomplishments  which  adorn  the  social 
circle.  She  converses  with  ease  and  elegance  in  several  of  the  modern  languages, 
and  excels  in  all  the  graces  of  her  sex ;  all  foreigners  of  distinction,  who  visit 
Mobile,  bear  letters  of  introduction  to  her  elegant  and  hospitable  home.  Lady 
Emmeline  Stuart  Wortley,  who  has  lately  been  travelling  through  this  country, 
addressed  her  some  beautiful  lines,  in  which  she  calls  her  the  "Sweet  Rose  of 
Florida,"  and  the  "  chosen  sister  of  her  heart." 
20 


154  CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ. 

calm  and  holy  religion  is  mirrored  in  every  page.  The  sorrow-stricken 
mourner  finds  therein  the  sweet  and  healing  balm  of  consolation,  and  the 
bitter  tears  cease  to  flow  when  she  points  to  that  ' better  land'  where  the 
loved  and  the  lost  are  waiting  for  us. 

"  Many  of  her  works  are  gay  and  spirituel,  full  of  delicate  wit,  '  bright 
as  the  flight  of  a  shining  arrow/  Often  have  the  smiles  long  exiled  from 
the  lips,  returned  at  the  bidding  of  her  merry  muse.  Home,  especially, 
she  describes  with  a  truthfulness  which  is  enchanting.  She  seems  to 
have  dipped  the  pen  in  her  own  soul,  and  written  of  its  emotions.  She 
exalts  all  that  is  good,  noble,  or  generous  in  the  human  heart,  and  gives 
to  even  the  clouds  of  existence  a  sunny  softness,  like  the  dreamy  light  of 
a  Claude  Lorraine  picture." 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP  BAG. 

IT  was  a  rainy  day,  a  real,  old-fashioned,  orthodox  rainy  day. 
It  rained  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  it  rained  harder  and  harder 
at  midday.  The  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  still  the 
rain  came  down  in  steady  and  persevering  drops,  every  drop  falling 
in  a  decided  and  obstinate  way,  as  if  conscious,  though  it  might  be 
ever  so  unwelcome,  no  one  had  a  right  to  oppose  its  coming.  A 
rainy  day  in  midsummer  is  a  glorious  thing.  The  grass  looks  up 
so  green  and  grateful  under  the  life-giving  moisture ;  the  flowers 
send  forth  such  a  delicious  aroma ;  the  tall  forest-trees  bend  down 
their  branches  so  gracefully  in  salutation  to  the  messengers  of 
heaven.  There  are  beauty,  grace,  and  glory  in  a  midsummer  rain, 
and  the  spirit  of  man  becomes  gay  and  buoyant  under  its  influence. 
But  a  March  rain  in  New  England,  when  the  vane  of  the  weather 
cock  points  inveterately  to  the  north-east,  when  the  brightness,  and 
purity,  and  positiveness  of  winter  is  gone,  and  not  one  promise  of 
spring  breaks  cheeringly  on  the  eye,  is  a  dismal  concern. 

Little  Estelle  stood  looking  out  at  the  window,  with  her  nose 
pressed  against  a  pane  of  glass,  wishing  it  would  clear  up,  it  was 
so  pretty  to  see  the  sun  break  out  just  as  he  was  setting.  The 
prospect  abroad  was  not  very  inviting.  It  was  a  patch  of  mud  and 
a  patch  of  snow,  the  dirtiest  mixture  in  nature's  olio.  A  little  boy 
went  slumping  by,  sinking  at  every  step  almost  to  his  knees ;  then 
a  carriage  slowly  and  majestically  came  plashing  along,  its  wheels 


CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ.  155 

buried  in  mud,  the  horses  labouring  and  straining,  and  every  now 
and  then  shaking  the  slime  indignantly  from  their  fetlocks,  and 
probably  thinking  none  but  amphibious  animals  should  be  abroad 
in  such  weather. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  such  an  ugly,  ugly  day  !"  said  Estelle,  "  I  do  wish  it 
were  over." 

"You  should  not  find  fault  with  the  weather,"  replied  Emma; 
"  mother  says  it  is  wicked,  for  God  sends  us  what  weather  seemeth 
good  to  him.  For  my  part,  I  have  had  a  very  happy  day  reading 
and  sewing." 

"And  I  too,"  said  Bessy,  "but  I  begin  to  be  tired  now,  and  I 
wish  I  could  see  some  of  those  beautiful  crimson  clouds,  tinged  with 
gold,  that  wait  upon  sunset." 

"  Bessy  has  such  a  romantic  mode  of  expression,"  cried  Edmund, 
laughing  and  laying  down  his  book  ;  "  I  think  she  will  make  a  poet 
one  of  these  days.  Even  now,  I  see  upon  her  lips  *  a  prophetess's 
fire.'  " 

Bessy's  blue  eyes  peeped  at  her  brother  through  her  golden  curls, 
and  something  in  them  seemed  to  say,  "  that  is  not  such  a  ridiculous 
prophecy  as  you  imagine." 

"  This  is  a  dreadful  day  for  a  traveller,"  said  Mrs.  "Worth,  with 
a  sigh,  and  the  children  all  thought  of  their  father,  exposed  to  the 
inclemency  of  the  atmosphere,  and  they  echoed  their  mother's  sigh. 
They  all  looked  very  sad,  till  the  entrance  of  another  member  of 
the  family  turned  their  thoughts  into  a  new  channel.  This  was  no 
other  than  Estelle's  kitten,  which  had  been  perambulating  in  the 
mire  and  rain,  till  she  looked  the  most  forlorn  object  in  the  world. 
Her  sides  were  hollow  and  dripping,  and  her  tail  clung  to  her  back 
in  a  most  abject  manner.  There  was  a  simultaneous  exclamation 
at  her  dishevelled  appearance,  but  Miss  Kitty  walked  on  as  de 
murely  as  if  nothing  particular  had  happened  to  her,  and  jumping 
on  her  little  mistress's  shoulder,  curled  her  wet  tail  round  her  ears, 
and  began  to  mew  and  purr,  opening  and  shutting  her  green  eyes 
between  every  purr.  Much  as  Estelle  loved  her  favourite,  she  was 
not  at  all  pleased  at  her  present  proximity,  and  called  out  ener 
getically  for  deliverance.  All  laughed  long  and  heartily  at  the 


156  CAROLINE   LEE    HENTZ. 

muddy  streaks  on  her  white  neck,  and  the  muddy  tracks  on  her 
white  apron,  and  she  looked  as  if  she  had  not  made  up  her  mind 
whether  to  laugh  or  cry,  when  a  fresh  burst  of  laughter  produced  a 
complete  reaction,  and  a  sudden  shower  of  tears  fell  precipitately 
on  Aunt  Patty's  lap. 

"Take  care,  Estelle,"  said  Edmund,  "Aunt  Patty  has  got  on 
her  thunder  and  lightning  calico.  She  does  not  like  to  have  it 
rained  on." 

Aunt  Patty  had  a  favourite  frock,  the  ground-work  of  which  was 
a  deep  brown,  with  zigzag  streaks  of  scarlet  darting  over  it.  Es 
telle  called  it  thunder  and  lightning,  and  certainly  it  was  a  very 
appropriate  similitude  for  a  child.  It  always  was  designated  by 
that  name,  and  Edmund  declared,  that  whenever  Aunt  Patty  wore 
that  dress,  it  was  sure  to  bring  a  storm.  She  was  now  solicited  by 
many  voices  to  bring  out  one  of  her  scrap-bags  for  their  amusement. 
And  she,  who  never  wearied  of  recalling  the  bright  images  of  her 
youthful  fancy,  or  the  impressions  of  later  years,  produced  a  gi 
gantic  satchel,  and  undrawing  the  strings,  Estelle's  little  hand  was 
plunged  in,  and  grasping  a  piece  by  chance,  smiles  played  like  sun 
beams  on  her  tears,  when  she  found  it  was  a  relic  of  old  Parson 
Broomfield's  banian.  It  consisted  of  broad  shaded  stripes,  of  an 
iron-gray  colour,  a  very  sober  and  ministerial-looking  calico. 

"Ah!"  said  Aunt  Patty — the  chords  of  memory  wakened  to 
music  at  the  sight — "  I  remember  the  time  when  I  first  saw  Par 
son  Broomfield  wear  that  banian.  I  was  a  little  girl  then,  and  my 
mother  used  to  send  me  on  errands  here  and  there,  in  a  little  car 
riage,  made  purposely  for  me  on  account  of  my  lameness.  A  boy 
used  to  draw  me,  in  the  same  way  that  they  do  infants,  and  every 
body  stopped  and  said  something  to  the  poor  lame  girl.  I  was 
going  by  the  parsonage,  one  warm  summer  morning,  and  the  par 
son  was  sitting  reading  under  a  large  elm  tree,  that  grew  directly 
in  front  of  his  door.  He  had  a  bench  put  all  round  the  trunk,  so 
that  weary  travellers  could  stop  and  rest  under  its  shade.  He  was 
a  blessed  man,  Parson  Broomfield — of  such  great  piety,  that  some 
thought  if  they  could  touch  the  hem  of  his  garment  they  would 
have  a  passport  to  heaven.  I  always  think  of  him  when  I  read 


CAROLINE  LEE   HENTZ.  157 

that  beautiful  verse  in  Job  :  '  The  young  men  saw  him  and  trem 
bled,  the  aged  arose  and  stood  up.'  Well,  there  he  sat,  that  warm 
summer  morning,  in  his  new  striped  banian,  turned  back  from  his 
neck,  and  turned  carelessly  over  one  knee,  to  keep  it  from  sweep 
ing  on  the  grass.  He  had  on  black  satin  lasting  pantaloons,  and 
a  black  velvet  waistcoat,  that  made  his  shirt  collar  look  as  white  as 
snow.  He  lifted  his  eyes,  when  he  heard  the  wheels  of  my  car 
riage  rolling  along,  and  made  a  sort  of  motion  for  me  to  stop. 
4  Good  morning,  little  Patty,'  said  he,  *  I  hope  you  are  very  well 
this  beautiful  morning.'  We  always  thought  it  an  honour  to  get  a 
word  from  his  lips,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  could  walk  without  a  crutch  the 
whole  day.  He  was  very  kind  to  little  children,  though  he  looked 
so  grand  and  holy  in  the  pulpit,  you  would  think  he  was  an  angel 
of  light,  just  come  down  there  from  the  skies." 

"Did  he  preach  in  that  calico  frock?"  asked  Emma,  anxious  for 
the  dignity  of  the  ministerial  office. 

"  Oh !  no,  child — all  in  solemn  black,  except  his  white  linen 
bands.  He  always  looked  like  a  saint  on  Sunday,  walking  in  the 
church  so  slow  and  stately,  yet  bowing  on  the  right  and  left,  to  the 
old,  white-headed  men,  that  waited  for  him  as  for  the  consolation 
of  Israel.  Oh !  he  was  a  blessed  man,  and  he  is  in  glory  now. 
Here,"  added  she,  taking  a  piece  of  spotless  linen  from  a  white 
folded  paper,  "  is  a  remnant  of  the  good  man's  shroud.  I  saw  him 
when  he  was  laid  out,  with  his  hands  folded  on  his  breast,  and  his 
Bible  resting  above  them." 

" Don't  they  have  any  Bibles  in  Heaven?"  asked  little  Estelle, 
shrinking  from  contact  with  the  funereal  sample. 

"  No,  child  ;  they  will  read  there  without  books,  and  see  without 
eyes,  and  know  everything  without  learning.  But  they  put  his 
Bible  on  his  heart,  because  he  loved  it  so  in  life,  and  it  seemed  to 
be  company  for  him  in  the  dark  coffin  and  lonely  grave." 

The  children  looked  serious,  and  Emma's  wistful  eyes,  lifted 
towards  heaven,  seemed  to  long  for  that  region  of  glorious  intui 
tion,  whither  the  beloved  pastor  of  Aunt  Patty's  youth  was  gone. 
Then  the  youngest  begged  her  to  tell  them  something  more  lively, 


158  CAROLINE    LEE   HENTZ. 

as  talking  about  death,  and  the  coffin,  and  grave,  made  them 
melancholy  such  a  rainy  day. 

"Here"  said  Bessy,  "is  a  beautiful  pink  and  white  muslin. 
The  figure  is  a  half  open  rosebud,  with  a  delicate  cluster  of  leaves. 
Who  had  a  dress  like  this,  Aunt  Patty?" 

"  That  was  the  dress  your  mother  wore  the  first  time  she  saw 
your  father,"  answered  the  chronicler,  with  a  significant  smile. 
Bessy  clasped  her  hands  with  delight,  and  they  all  gathered  close, 
to  gaze  upon  an  object  associated  with  such  an  interesting  era. 

"Didn't  she  look  sweet?"  said  Bessy,  looking  admiringly  at  her 
handsome  and  now  blushing  mother. 

"  Yes  !  her  cheeks  were  the  colour  of  her  dress,  and  that  day 
she  had  a  wreath  of  roses  in  her  hair ;  for  Emma's  father  loved 
flowers,  and  made  her  ornament  herself  with  them  to  please  his 
eye.  It  was  about  sunset.  It  had  been  very  sultry,  and  the  roads 
were  so  dusty  we  could  scarcely  see  after  a  horse  or  carriage  passed 
by.  Emma  was  in  the  front  yard  watering  some  plants,  when  a 
gentleman  on  horseback  rode  slowly  along,  as  if  he  tried  to  make 
as  little  dust  as  possible.  He  rode  by  the  house  at  first,  then  turn 
ing  back,  he  came  right  up  to  the  gate,  and,  lifting  up  his  hat, 
bowed  down  to  the  saddle.  He  was  a  tall,  dark-complexioned 
young  man,  who  sat  nobly  on  his  horse,  just  as  if  he  belonged  to 
it.  Emma,  your  mother  that  is,  set  down  her  watering-pot,  and 
made  a  sort  of  courtesy,  a  little  frightened  at  a  stranger  coming 
so  close  to  her,  before  she  knew  anything  about  it.  '  May  I  trou 
ble  you  for  a  glass  of  water  ?'  said  he,  with  another  bow.  4 1  have 
travelled  long,  and  am  oppressed  with  thirst.'  Emma  courtesied 
again,  and  blushed  too,  I  dare  say,  and  away  she  went  for  a  glass 
of  water,  which  she  brought  him  with  her  own  hands.  Your  grand 
father  had  come  to  the  door  by  this  time,  and  he  said  he  never  saw 
a  man  so  long  drinking  a  glass  of  water  in  his  life.  As  I  told  you 
before,  it  had  been  a  terribly  sultry  day,  and  there  were  large 
thunder  pillars  leaning  down  black  in  the  west — a  sure  sign  there 
was  going  to  be  a  heavy  shower.  Your  grandfather  came  out,  and 
being  an  hospitable  man,  he  asked  the  stranger  to  stop  and  rest  till 
the  rain  that  was  coming  was  over.  He  didn't  wait  to  be  asked 


CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ.  159 

twice,  but  jumped  from  his  horse  and  walked  in,  making  a  bow  at 
the  door,  and  waiting  for  your  mother  to  walk  in  first.  Well,  sure 
enough,  it  did  rain  in  a  short  time,  and  thunder,  and  lighten,  and 
blow,  as  if  the  house  would  come  down  ;  and  the  strange  gentleman 
sat  down  close  by  Emma,  and  tried  to  keep  her  from  being  fright 
ened,  for  she  looked  as  pale  as  death  ;  and  when  the  lightning 
flashed  bright,  she  covered  up  her  face  with  her  hands.  It  kept  on 
thundering  and  raining  till  bed-time,  when  your  grandfather  offered 
him  a  bed,  and  told  him  he  must  stay  till  morning.  Everybody 
was  taken  with  him,  for  he  talked  like  a  book,  and  looked  as  if  he 
knew  more  than  all  the  books  in  the  world.  He  told  his  name,  and 
all  about  himself — that  he  was  a  young  lawyer  just  commencing 
business  in  a  town  near  by  (the  very  town  we  are  now  living  in) ; 
that  he  had  been  on  a  journey,  and  was  on  his  way  home,  which 
he  had  expected  to  reach  that  night.  He  seemed  to  hate  to  go 
away  so  the  next  morning,  that  your  grandfather  asked  him  to  come 
and  see  him  again — and  he  took  him  at  his  word,  and  came  back 
the  very  next  week.  This  time  he  didn't  hide  from  anybody  what 
he  came  for,  for  he  courted  your  mother  in  good  earnest,  and  never 
left  her,  or  gave  her  any  peace,  till  she  had  promised  to  be  his  wife, 
which  I  believe  she  was  very  willing  to  be,  from  the  first  night  she 
saw  him." 

"Nay,  Aunt  Patty,"  said  Mrs.  Worth,  "I  must  correct  you  in 
some  of  your  items ;  your  imagination  is  a  little  too  vivid." 

Edmund  went  behind  his  mother's  chair,  and  putting  his  hands 
playfully  over  her  ears,  begged  Aunt  Patty  to  go  on,  and  give  her 
imagination  full  scope. 

"  And  show  us  the  wedding-dress,  and  tell  us  all  about  it,"  said 
Bessy.  "  It  is  pleasanter  to  hear  of  mother's  wedding,  than  Par 
son  Broomfield's  funeral." 

"  But  that's  the  way,  darling — a  funeral  and  a  wedding,  a  birth 
and  a  death,  all  mixed  up,  the  world  over.  We  must  take  things 
as  they  come,  and  be  thankful  for  all.  Do  you  see  this  white 
sprigged  satin,  and  this  bit  of  white  lace  ?  The  wedding-dress  was 
made  of  the  satin,  and  trimmed  round  the  neck  and  sleeves  with 
the  lace,  and  the  money  it  cost  would  have  clothed  a  poor  family 


160  CAROLINE    LEE    HENTZ. 

for  a  long  time.  But  your  grandfather  said  he  had  but  one  daugh 
ter,  and  she  should  be  well  fitted  out,  if  it  cost  him  all  he  had  in 
the  world.  And,  moreover,  he  had  a  son-in-law,  whom  he  would 
not  exchange  for  any  other  man  in  the  universe.  When  Emma, 
your  mother  that  is,  was  dressed  in  her  bridal  finery,  with  white 
blossoms  in  her  hair,  which  hung  in  ringlets  down  her  rosy  cheeks, 
you  might  search  the  country  round  for  a  prettier  and  fairer  bride 
— and  your  father  looked  like  a  prince.  Parson  Broomfield  said 
they  were  the  handsomest  couple  he  ever  married — and,  bless  his 
soul,  they  were  the  last.  He  was  taken  sick  a  week  after  the  wed 
ding,  and  never  lifted  his  head  afterwards.  It  is  a  blessed  thing 
Emma  was  married  when  she  was,  for  I  wouldn't  want  to  be  mar 
ried  by  any  other  minister  in  the  world  than  Parson  Broomfield." 

"  Where's  your  husband,  Aunt  Patty  ?"  said  Estelle,  suddenly. 

Edmund  and  Bessy  laughed  outright.  Emma  only  smiled — she 
feared  Aunt  Patty's  feelings  might  be  wounded. 

"  I  never  had  any,  child,"  replied  she,  after  taking  a  large  pinch 
of  snuff. 

"  What's  the  reason  ?"  persevered  Estelle. 

"Hush — Estelle,"  said  her  mother,  "little  girls  must  not  ask 
so  many  questions." 

"I'll  tell  you  the  reason,"  cried  Aunt  Patty,  "for  I'm  never 
ashamed  to  speak  the  truth.  No  one  ever  thought  of  marrying 
me,  for  I  was  a  lame,  helpless,  and  homely  girl,  without  a  cent  of 
money  to  make  folks  think  one  pretty,  whether  I  was  or  not.  I 
never  dreamed  of  having  sweethearts,  but  was  thankful  for  friends, 
who  were  willing  to  bear  with  Eiy  infirmities,  and  provide  for  my 
comfort.  I  don't  care  if  they  do  call  me  an  old  maid.  I'm  satis 
fied  with  the  place  Providence  has  assigned  me,  knowing  it's  a  thou 
sand  times  better  than  I  deserve.  The  tree  that  stands  alone  by 
the  wayside  offers  shelter  and  shade  to  the  weary  traveller.  It  was 
not  created  in  vain,  though  no  blossom  nor  fruit  may  hang  upon 
its  boughs.  It  gets  its 'portion  of  the  sunshine  and  dew,  and  the 
little  birds  come  and  nestle  in  its  branches." 


HANNAH  ADAMS. 


MRS.  OILMAN,  in  her  autobiography,  page  55  of  the  present  volume, 
makes  a  very  pleasant  allusion  to  Hannah  Adams,  the  venerated  author 
of  the  "  History  of  Religions,"  the  pioneer,  almost,  of  American  female 
authorship.  The  account  of  her  which  follows  is  taken,  with  very  slight 
verbal  alterations,  from  "Woman's  Record/'  by  Mrs.  Hale,  and  may  be 
considered  as  an  additional  extract  from  that  valuable  work. 

"  Hannah  Adams  was  born  in  Medfield,  Massachusetts,  in  1755.  Her 
father  was  a  respectable  farmer  in  that  place,  rather  better  educated  than 
persons  of  his  class  usually  were  at  that  time ;  and  his  daughter,  who  was 
a  very  delicate  child,  profited  by  his  fondness  for  books.  So  great  was 
her  love  for  reading  and  study,  that  when  very  young  she  had  committed 
to  memory  nearly  all  of  Milton,  Pope,  Thomson,  Young,  and  several 
other  poets. 

"  When  she  was  about  seventeen  her  father  failed  in  business,  and  Miss 
Adams  was  obliged  to  exert  herself  for  her  own  maintenance.  This  she 
did  at  first  by  making  lace,  a  very  profitable  employment  during  the  revo 
lutionary  war,  as  very  little  lace  was  then  imported.  But  after  the  termi 
nation  of  the  conflict  she  was  obliged  to  resort  to  some  other  means  of 
support ;  and  having  acquired  from  the  students  who  had  boarded  with  her 
father,  a  competent  knowledge  of  Latin  and  Greek,  she  undertook  to  pre 
pare  young  men  for  college ;  and  succeeded  so  well,  that  her  reputation 
was  spread  throughout  the  State. 

"  Her  first  work,  entitled  u  The  View  of  Religions,"  which  she  com 
menced  when  she  was  about  thirty,  is  a  history  of  the  different  sects  in 
religion.  It  caused  her  so  much  hard  study  and  close  reflection,  that  she 
was  attacked  before  the  close  of  her  labours  by  a  severe  fit  of  illness,  and 
threatened  with  derangement.  Her  next  work  was  a  carefully  written 
"  History  of  Xew  England;"  and  her  third  was  on  "The  Evidences  of 
the  Christian  Religion." 
21 


162  HANNAH   ADA  MS. 

"  Though  all  these  works  showed  great  candour  and  liberality  of  mind 
and  profound  research,  and  though  they  were  popular,  yet  they  brought 
her  but  little  besides  fame ;  which,  however,  had  extended  to  Europe,  and 
she  reckoned  among  her  correspondents  many  of  the  learned  men  of  all 
countries.  Among  these  was  the  celebrated  abbe  Gregoire,  who  was  then 
struggling  for  the  emancipation  of  the  Jews  in  France.  He  sent  Miss 
Adams  several  volumes,  which  she  acknowledged  were  of  much  use  to 
her  in  preparing  her  own  work,  a  "  History  of  the  Jews,"  now  considered 
one  of  the  most  valuable  of  her  productions.  Still,  as  far  as  pecuniary 
matters  went,  she  was  singularly  unsuccessful,  probably  from  her  want 
of  knowledge  of  business,  and  ignorance  in  worldly  matters;  and,  to 
relieve  her  from  her  embarrassments,  three  wealthy  gentlemen  of  Boston, 
with  great  liberality,  settled  an  annuity  upon  her,  of  which  she  was  kept 
in  entire  ignorance  till  the  whole  affair  was  completed. 

"  The  latter  part  of  her  life  passed  in  Boston,  in  the  midst  of  a  large 
circle  of  friends,  by  whom  she  was  warmly  cherished  and  esteemed  for 
the  singular  excellence,  purity,  and  simplicity  of  her  character.  She 
died,  November  15th,  1832,  at  the  age  of  seventy-six,  and  was  buried  at 
Mount  Auburn ;  the  first  one  whose  body  was  placed  in  that  cemetery. 
Through  life,  the  gentleness  of  her  manners  and  the  sweetness  of  her 
temper  were  childlike ;  she  trusted  all  her  cares  to  the  control  of  her 
heavenly  Father;  and  she  did  not  trust  in  vain." 


THE  GNOSTICS. 

THIS  denomination  sprang  up  in  the  first  century.  Several  of 
the  disciples  of  Simon  Magus  held  the  principles  of  his  philosophy, 
together  with  the  profession  of  Christianity,  and  were  distinguished 
by  the  appellation  of  Gnostics,  from  their  boasting  of  being  able 
to  restore  mankind  to  the  knowledge,  yvwcftj,  of  the  Supreme  Being, 
which  had  been  lost  in  the  world.  This  party  was  not  conspicu 
ous  for  its  numbers  or  reputation  before  the  time  of  Adrian.  It 
derives  its  origin  from  the  Oriental  philosophy.  The  doctrine  of  a 
soul,  distinct  from  the  body,  which  had  pre-existed  in  an  angelic 
state,  and  was,  for  some  offence  committed  in  that  state,  degraded, 
and  confined  to  the  body  as  a  punishment,  had  been-  the  great 
doctrine  of  the  eastern  sages  from  time  immemorial.  Not  being 
able  to  conceive  how  evil  in  so  great  an  extent,  could  be  subser 
vient  to  good,  they  supposed  that  good  and  evil  have  different 
origins.  So  mixed  a  system  as  this  is,  they  therefore  thought  to 


HANNAH   ADAMS.  163 

be  unworthy  of  infinite  wisdom  and  goodness.  They  looked  upon 
matter  as  the  source  of  all  evil,  and  argued  in  this  manner :  There 
are  many  evils  in  this  world,  and  men  seem  impelled  by  a  natural 
instinct,  to  the  practice  of  those  things  which  reason  condemns ; 
but  the  eternal  Mind,  from  which  all  spirits  derive  their  existence, 
must  be  inaccessible  to  all  kinds  of  evil,  and  also  of  a  most  perfect 
and  benevolent  nature.  Therefore,  the  origin  of  those  evils,  with 
which  the  universe  abounds,  must  be  sought  somewhere  else  than 
in  the  Deity.  It  cannot  reside  in  him  who  is  all  perfection ;  there 
fore,  it  must  be  without  him.  Now  there  is  nothing  without  or 
beyond  the  Deity  but  matter ;  therefore  matter  is  the  centre  and 
source  of  all  evil  and  of  all  vice.  Having  taken  for  granted  these 
principles,  they  proceeded  further,  and  affirmed,  that  matter  was 
eternal,  and  derived  its  present  form,  not  from  the  will  of  the 
Supreme  God,  but  from  the  creating  power  of  some  inferior  intelli 
gence,  to  whom  the  world  and  its  inhabitants  owed  their  existence. 
As  a  proof  of  their  assertion,  they  alleged,  that  it  was  incredible 
the  Supreme  Deity,  perfectly  good,  and  infinitely  removed  from 
all  evil,  should  either  create,  or  modify  matter,  which  is  essentially 
malignant  and  corrupt ;  or,  bestow  upon  it  in  any  degree,  the 
riches  of  his  wisdom  and  liberality. 

In  their  system  it  was  generally  supposed,  that  all  intelligences 
had  only  one  source,  viz.  the  divine  Mind.  And  to  help  out  the 
doctrine  concerning  the  origin  of  evil,  it  was  imagined,  that  though 
the  divine  Being  himself  was  essentially  and  perfectly  good,  those 
intelligences,  or  spirits,  who  were  derived  from  him,  and  especially 
those  who  were  derived  from  them,  were  capable  of  depravation. 
It  was  further  imagined,  that  the  depravation  of  those  inferior 
intelligent  beings  from  the  Supreme,  was  by  a  kind  of  efflux  or 
emanation,  a  part  of  the  substance  being  detached  from  the  rest, 
but  capable  of  being  absorbed  into  it  again.  To  those  intelligences 
derived  mediately  or  immediately  from  the  divine  Mind,  the  author 
of  this  system  did  not  scruple  to  give  the  name  of  gods,  thinking 
some  of  them  capable  of  a  power  of  modifying  matter. 

The  oriental  sages  expected  the  arrival  of  an  extraordinary 
messenger  of  the  Most  High  upon  earth  ;  a  messenger  invested 


164  HANNAH   ADA  MS. 

with  a  divine  authority ;  endowed  with  the  most  eminent  sanctity 
and  wisdom ;  and  peculiarly  appointed  to  enlighten  with  the  know 
ledge  of  the  Supreme  Being,  the  darkened  minds  of  miserable 
mortals,  and  to  deliver  them  from  the  chains  of  the  tyrants  and 
usurpers  of  this  world.  When,  therefore,  some  of  these  philoso 
phers  perceived  that  Christ  and  his  followers  wrought  miracles  of 
the  most  amazing  kind,  and  also  of  the  most  salutary  nature  to 
mankind,  they  were  easily  induced  to  connect  their  fundamental 
doctrines  with  Christianity,  by  supposing  him  the  great  messenger 
expected  from  above,  to  deliver  men  from  the  power  of  the  malig 
nant  genii,  or  spirits,  to  whom,  according  to  their  doctrine,  the 
world  was  subjected,  and  to  free  their  souls  from  the  dominion  of 
corrupt  matter.  But  though  they  considered  him  as  the  Supreme 
God,  sent  from  the  pleroma,  or  habitation  of  the  everlasting 
Father,  they  deny  his  divinity,  looking  upon  him  as  inferior  to  the 
Father.  They  rejected  his  humanity,  upon  the  supposition  that 
everything  concrete  and  corporeal  is  in  itself  essentially  and  intrin 
sically  evil.  Hence  the  greatest  part  of  the  Gnostics  denied  that 
Christ  was  clothed  with  a  real  body,  or  that  he  suffered  really  for 
the  sake  of  mankind,  the  pains  and  sorrows  which  he  is  said  to 
have  endured  in  the  sacred  history.  They  maintained,  that  he 
came  to  mortals  with  no  other  view,  than  to  deprive  the  tyrants  of 
this  world  of  their  influence  upon  virtuous  and  heaven-born  souls, 
and  destroying  the  empire  of  these  wicked  spirits,  to  teach  man 
kind  how  they  might  separate  the  divine  mind  from  the  impure 
body,  and  render  the  former  worthy  of  being  united  to  the  Father 
of  spirits. 

Their  persuasion,  that  evil  resided  in  matter,  rendered  them 
unfavourable  to  wedlock ;  and  led  them  to  hold  the  doctrine  of  the 
resurrection  of  the  body  in  great  contempt.  They  considered  it 
as  a  mere  clog  to  the  immortal  soul ;  and  supposed,  that  nothing 
was  meant  by  it,  but  either  a  moral  change  in  the  minds  of  men, 
which  took  place  before  they  died ;  or  that  it  signified  the  ascent 
of  the  soul  to  its  proper  abode  in  the  superior  regions,  when  it  was 
disengaged  from  its  earthly  encumbrance.  The  notion,  which  this 


HANNAH   ADA  MS.  165 

denomination  entertained,  that  the  malevolent  genii  presided  in 
nature,  and  that  from  them  proceed  all  diseases  and  calamities, 
wars,  and  desolations,  induced  them  to  apply  themselves  to  the 
study  of  magic,  to  weaken  the  powers,  or  suspend  the  influences 
of  these  malignant  agents. 

As  the  Gnostics  were  philosophic  and  speculative  people,  and 
affected  refinement,  they  did  not  make  much  account  of  public  wor 
ship,  or  of  positive  institutions  of  any  kind.  They  are  said,  not 
to  have  had  any  order  in  their  churches. 

As  many  of  this  denomination  thought  that  Christ  had  not  any 
real  body,  and  therefore  had  not  any  proper  flesh  and  blood,  it 
seems  on  this  account,  when  they  used  to  celebrate^  the  Eucharist, 
they  did  not  make  any  use  of  wine,  which  represents  the  blood  of 
Christ,  but  of  water  only. 

We  have  fewer  accounts  of  what  they  thought  or  did  with 
respect  to  baptism,  but  it  seems  that  some  of  them  at  least  disused 
it.  And  it  is  said,  that  some  abstained  from  the  Eucharist,  and 
from  prayer. 

The  greatest  part  of  this  denomination  adopted  rules  of  life, 
which  were  full  of  austerity,  recommending  a  strict  and  rigorous 
abstinence,  and  prescribed  the  most  severe  bodily  mortifications, 
from  a  notion,  that  they  had  a  happy  influence  in  purifying  and 
enlarging  the  mind,  and  in  disposing  it  for  the  contemplation  of 
celestial  things.  That  some  of  the  Gnostics,  in  consequence  of 
making  no  account  of  the  body,  might  think,  that  there  was  neither 
good  nor  evil  in  anything  relating  to  it ;  and  therefore  suppose 
themselves  at  liberty  to  indulge  in  any  sensual  excesses,  is  not 
impossible ;  though  it  is  more  probable,  that  everything  of  this 
nature  would  be  greatly  exaggerated  by  the  enemies  of  this 
denomination. 


ELIZABETH    F.    ELLET. 


ELIZABETH  FRIES  LUMMIS  was  born  at  Sodus  Point,  New  York,  Oc 
tober,  1818.  She  was  married  at  an  early  age  to  William  F.  Ellet,  M.  D., 
Professor  of  Chemistry  in  Columbia  College,  in  the  city  of  New  York. 
Dr.  Ellet  having  accepted,  soon  after,  the  appointment  of  Professor  in 
South  Carolina  College,  Mrs.  Ellet  resided  several  years  in  Charleston. 
She  has  since  that  lived  in  New  York  city. 

Her  father  was  Dr.  William  Nixon  Lummis.  He  was  of  a  highly  respect 
able  family,  his  father  and  brothers  being  physicians.  He  studied  medi 
cine  in  Philadelphia,  attending  the  lectures  of  Dr.  Benjamin  Rush,  whose 
friend  he  was,  and  whom  in  person  he  strongly  resembled. 

Her  mother  was  Sarah  Maxwell,  daughter  of  John  Maxwell,  and  niece 
of  General  William  Maxwell,  who  served  with  distinction  until  near  the 
close  of  the  revolutionary  war,  when  he  threw  up  his  commission  on 
account  of  some  dissatisfaction. 

Mrs.  Ellet  commenced  authorship  as  early  as  1833,  since  which  time 
she  has  contributed  largely,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  to  nearly  all  the  lead 
ing  periodicals,  besides  the  publication  of  several  volumes,  which  have  met 
with  good  success. 

A  volume  of  poems  appeared  in  1835.  In  1841  she  published  "  Cha 
racters  of  Schiller,"  containing  an  essay  on  the  genius  of  Schiller,  and  a 
critical  analysis  of  his  characters.  "  Joanna  of  Sicily"  soon  followed.  It 
was  a  work  partly  fictitious,  partly  historical,  intended  to  exhibit  the  cha 
racter  and  life  of  the  queen  whose  name  it  bears.  "  Rambles  about  the 
Country"  was  a  volume  intended  for  children.  It  describes  various  scenes 
in  the  United  States.  "  Evenings  at  Woodlawn"  is  a  collection  of  Eu 
ropean  legends  and  traditions,  translated  and  modified  to  suit  American 
readers.  It  has  had  a  large  sale. 

Mrs.  Ellet  is  understood  to  have  written  for  the  North  American  Re- 

(166) 


ELIZABETH   F.    ELLET.  167 

view,  the  American  Quarterly,  and  the  Southern  Review,  but  I  am  unable 
to  designate  particularly  her  articles. 

Her  largest  work  is  "  The  Women  of  the  Revolution/'  in  three  volumes. 
It  has  gone  through  seven  or  eight  editions  in  two  years.  In  this  work 
she  has  collected  with  great  zeal,  and  most  abundant  success,  all  the  evi 
dences  of  special  patriotism  and  nobleness  exhibited  by  her  own  sex  during 
the  period  that  "  tried  men's  souls."  The  facts  which  she  has  thus 
rescued  from  their  traditionary  state,  and  placed  on  permanent  record, 
make  a  truly  valuable  addition  to  our  revolutionary  story.  They  are  her 
own  noblest  and  most  enduring  monument. 

Besides  these  very  interesting  volumes,  Mrs.  Ellet  has  published  still 
another,  called  the  "  Domestic  History  of  the  Revolution,"  of  a  character 
similar  to  the  former  in  its  general  tone  and  point  of  view,  but  having  a 
regular  and  connected  narrative,  suitable  for  a  text  book. 


MARY  SLOCUMB. 

IT  was  about  ten  o'clock  on  a  beautiful  spring  morning,  that  a 
splendidly-dressed  officer,  accompanied  by  two  aids,  and  followed 
at  a  short  distance  by  a  guard  of  some  twenty  troopers,  dashed  up 
to  the  piazza  in  front  of  the  ancient-looking  mansion.  Mrs.  Slo- 
cumb  was  sitting  there,  with  her  child  and  a  near  relative,  a  young 
lady,  who  afterwards  became  the  wife  of  Major  Williams.  A  few 
house  servants  were  also  on  the  piazza. 

The  officer  raised  his  cap,  and  bowing  to  his  horse's  neck,  ad 
dressed  the  lady,  with  the  question — 

"  Have  I  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  mistress  of  this  house  and 
plantation !" 

"  It  belongs  to  my  husband." 

"  Is  he  at  home  ?" 

"  He  is  not." 

"Is  he  a  rebel?" 

"No,  sir.  He  is  in  the  army  of  his  country,  and  fighting 
against  our  invaders  ;  therefore  not  a  rebel." 

It  is  not  a  little  singular,  that  although  the  people  of  that  day 
gloried  in  their  rebellion,  they  always  took  offence  at  being  called 
rebels. 


168  ELIZABETH   F.    ELLET. 

"I  fear,  madam,"  said  the  officer,  "we  differ  in  opinion.  A 
friend  to  his  country  will  be  the  friend  of  the  king,  our  master." 

"  Slaves  only  acknowledge  a  master  in  this  country,"  replied  the 
lady. 

A  deep  flush  crossed  the  florid  cheeks  of  Tarleton,  for  he  was  the 
speaker ;  and  turning  to  one  of  his  aids,  he  ordered  him  to  pitch 
the  tents  and  form  the  encampment  in  the  orchard  and  field  on 
their  right.  To  the  other  aid  his  orders  were  to  detach  a  quarter 
guard  and  station  piquets  on  each  road.  Then  bowing  very  low, 
he  added :  "  Madam,  the  service  of  his  Majesty  requires  the  tem 
porary  occupation  of  your  property ;  and  if  it  would  not  be  too 
great  an  inconvenience,  I  will  take  up  my  quarters  in  your  house." 

The  tone  admitted  no  controversy.  Mrs.  Slocumb  answered: 
"  My  family  consists  of  only  myself,  my  sister  and  child,  and  a  few 
negroes.  We  are  your  prisoners." 

While  the  men  were  busied,  different  officers  came  up  at  inter 
vals,  making  their  reports  and  receiving  orders.  Among  others,  a 
tory  captain,  whom  Mrs.  Slocumb  immediately  recognised — for 
before  joining  the  royal  army,  he  had  lived  fifteen  or  twenty  miles 
below — received  orders  in  her  hearing  to  take  his  troop  and  scour 
the  country  for  two  or  three  miles  round. 

In  an  hour  everything  was  quiet,  and  the  plantation  presented 
the  romantic  spectacle  of  a  regular  encampment  of  some  ten  or 
eleven  hundred  of  the  choicest  cavalry  of  the  British  monarch. 

Mrs.  Slocumb  now  addressed  herself  to  the  duty  of  preparing 
for  her  uninvited  guests.  The  dinner  set  before  the  king's  officers 
was,  in  her  own  words  to  her  friend,  "  as  good  a  dinner  as  you  have 
now  before  you,  and  of  much  the  same  materials."  A  description 
of  what  then  constituted  a  good  dinner  in  that  region  may  not 
be  inappropriate.  "  The  first  dish  was,  of  course,  the  boiled  ham, 
flanked  with  the  plate  of  greens.  Opposite  was  the  turkey,  sup 
ported  by  the  laughing  baked  sweet  potatoes ;  a  plate  of  boiled 
beef,  another  of  sausages,  and  a  third  with  a  pair  of  baked  fowls, 
formed  a  line  across  the  centre  of  the  table ;  half  a  dozen  dishes 
of  different  pickles,  stewed  fruit,  and  other  condiments,  filled  up  the 
interstices  of  the  board."  The  dessert,  too,  was  abundant  and 


ELIZABETHF.    ELLET.  169 

various.  Such  a  dinner,  it  may  well  be  supposed,  met  the  parti 
cular  approbation  of  the  royal  officers,  especially  as  the  fashion  of 
that  day  introduced  stimulating  drinks  to  the  table,  and  the  peach 
brandy,  prepared  under  Lieutenant  Slocumb's  own  supervision,  was 
of  the  most  excellent  sort.  It  received  the  unqualified  praise  of 
the  party ;  and  its  merits  were  freely  discussed.  A  Scotch  officer, 
praising  it  by  the  name  of  whiskey,  protested  that  he  had  never 
drunk  as  good  out  of  Scotland.  An  officer  speaking  with  a  slight 
brogue,  insisted  it  was  not  whiskey,  and  that  no  Scotch  drink  ever 
equalled  it.  "  To  my  mind,"  said  he,  "  it  tastes  as  yonder  orchard 
smells." 

"  Allow  me,  madam,"  said  Colonel  Tarleton,  "  to  inquire  where 
the  spirits  we  are  drinking  is  procured." 

"From  the  orchard  where  your  tents  stand,"  answered  Mrs. 
Slocumb. 

"Colonel,"  said  the  Irish  captain,  "when  we  conquer  this  coun 
try,  is  it  not  to  be  divided  out  among  us  ?" 

"The  officers  of  this  army,"  replied  the  colonel,  "will  undoubt 
edly  receive  large  possessions  of  the  conquered  American  provinces." 

Mrs.  Slocumb  here  interposed.  "Allow  me  to  observe  and 
prophesy,"  said  she,  "the  only  land  in  these  United  States  which 
will  ever  remain  in  possession  of  a  British  officer,  will  measure  but 
six  feet  by  two." 

"Excuse  me,  madam,"  remarked  Tarleton.  "For  your  sake  I 
regret  to  say — this  beautiful  plantation  will  be  the  ducal  seat  of 
some  of  us." 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  me,"  retorted  the  spirited  lady. 
"  My  husband  is  not  a  man  who  would  allow  a  duke,  or  even  a 
king,  to  have  a  quiet  seat  upon  his  ground." 

At  this  point  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  rapid  volleys 
of  fire-arms,  appearing  to  proceed  from  the  wood  a  short  distance 
to  the  eastward.  One  of  the  aids  pronounced  it  some  straggling 
scout,  running  from  the  picket-guard ;  but  the  experience  of  Colo 
nel  Tarleton  could  not  be  easily  deceived. 

"  There  are  rifles  and  muskets,"  said  he,  "  as  well  as  pistols  ;  and 
22 


170  ELIZABETH    F.   EL  LET. 

too  many  to  pass  unnoticed.  Order  boots  and  saddles,  and  you, 
captain,  take  your  troop  in  the  direction  of  the  firing." 

The  officer  rushed  out  to  execute  his  orders,  while  the  colonel 
walked  into  the  piazza,  whither  he  was  immediately  followed  by 
the  anxious  ladies.  Mrs.  Slocumb's  agitation  and  alarm  may  be 
imagined ;  for  she  guessed  but  too  well  the  cause  of  the  interrup 
tion.  On  the  first  arrival  of  the  officers  she  had  been  importuned, 
even  with  harsh  threats — not,  however,  by  Tarleton — to  tell  where 
her  husband,  when  absent  on  duty,  was  likely  to  be  found ;  but 
after  her  repeated  and  peremptory  refusals,  had  escaped  further 
molestation  on  the  subject.  She  feared  now  that  he  had  returned 
unexpectedly,  and  might  fall  into  the  enemy's  hands  before  he  was 
aware  of  their  presence. 

Her  sole  hope  was  in  a  precaution  she  had  adopted  soon  after 
the  coming  of  her  unwelcome  guests.  Having  heard  Tarleton  give 
the  order  to  the  tory  captain  as  before  mentioned,  to  patrol  the 
country,  she  immediately  sent  for  an  old  negro,  and  gave  him 
directions  to  take  a  bag  of  corn  to  the  mill,  about  four  miles  distant, 
on  the  road  she  knew  her  husband  must  travel  if  he  returned  that 
day.  "  Big  George"  was  instructed  to  warn  his  master  of  the 
danger  of  approaching  his  home.  With  the  indolence  and  curiosity 
natural  to  his  race,  however,  the  old  fellow  remained  loitering  about 
the  premises,  and  was  at  this  time  lurking  under  the  hedge-row, 
admiring  the  red  coats,  dashing  plumes,  and  shining  helmets  of  the 
British  troopers. 

The  colonel  and  the  ladies  continued  on  the  look-out  from  the 
piazza.  "May  I  be  allowed,  madam,"  at  length  said  Tarleton, 
"  without  offence,  to  inquire  if  any  part  of  Washington's  army  is 
in  this  neighbourhood?" 

" I  presume  it  is  known  to  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Slocumb,  "that 
the  Marquis  and  Greene  are  in  this  State.  And  you  would  not  of 
course,"  she  added,  after  a  slight  pause,  "be  surprised  at  a  call 
from  Lee,  or  your  old  friend  Colonel  Washington,  who,  although  a 
perfect  gentleman,  it  is  said  shook  your  hand  (pointing  to  the  scar 
left  by  Washington's  sabre)  very  rudely,  when  you  last  met." 

This  spirited  answer  inspired  Tarleton  with  apprehensions  that 


ELIZABETHF.    ELLET.  171 

the  skirmish  in  the  woods  was  only  the  prelude  to  a  concerted 
attack  on  his  camp.  His  only  reply  was  a  loud  order  to  form  the 
troops  on  the  right ;  and  springing  on  his  charger,  he  dashed  down 
the  avenue  a  few  hundred  feet,  to  a  breach  in  the  hedge-row,  leaped 
the  fence,  and  in  a  moment  was  at  the  head  of  his  regiment,  which 
was  already  in  line. 

Meanwhile,  Lieutenant  Slocumb,  with  John  Howell,  a  private  in 
his  band,  Henry  Williams,  and  the  brother  of  Mrs.  Slocumb, 
Charles  Hooks,  a  boy  of  about  thirteen  years  of  age,  was  leading 
a  hot  pursuit  of  the  tory  captain  who  had  been  sent  to  reconnoitre 
the  country,  and  some  of  his  routed  troop.  These  were  first  dis 
cerned  in  the  open  grounds  east  and  north-east  of  the  plantation, 
closely  pursued  by  a  body  of  American  mounted  militia ;  while  a 
running  fight  was  kept  up  with  different  weapons,  in  which  four  or 
five  broadswords  gleamed  conspicuous.  The  foremost  of  the  pur 
suing  party  appeared  too  busy  with  the  tories  to  see  anything  else ; 
and  they  entered  the  avenue  at  the  same  moment  with  the  party 
pursued.  With  what  horror  and  consternation  did  Mrs.  Slocumb 
recognise  her  husband,  her  brother,  and  two  of  her  neighbours,  in 
chase  of  the  tory  captain  and  four  of  his  band,  already  half-way 
down  the  avenue,  and  unconscious  that  they  were  rushing  into  the 
enemy's  midst ! 

About  the  middle  of  the  avenue  one  of  the  tories  fell ;  and  the 
course  of  the  brave  and  imprudent  young  officers  was  suddenly 
arrested  by  "Big  George,"  who  sprang  directly  in  front  of  their 
horses,  crying,  "Hold  on,  massa!  de  debbil  here!  Look  yon!"* 
A  glance  to  the  left  showed  the  young  men  their  danger :  they 
were  within  pistol  shot  of  a  thousand  men  drawn  up  in  order  of 
battle.  Wheeling  their  horses,  they  discovered  a  troop  already 
leaping  the  fence  into  the  avenue  in  their  rear.  Quick  as  thought 
they  again  wheeled  their  horses,  and  dashed  down  the  avenue 
directly  towards  the  house,  where  stood  the  quarter-guard  to 
receive  them.  On  reaching  the  garden  fence — a  rude  structure 
formed  of  a  kind  of  lath,  and  called  a  wattled  fence — they  leaped 
that  and  the  next,  amid  a  shower  of  balls  from  the  guard,  cleared 

*  Yon,  for  yonder. 


172  ELIZABETH   F.    ELLET. 

the  canal  at  one  tremendous  leap,  and  scouring  across  the  open 
field  to  the  north-west,  were  in  the  shelter  of  the  wood  before  their 
pursuers  could  clear  the  fences  of  the  enclosure.  The  whole  ground 
of  this  adventure  may  be  seen  as  the  traveller  passes  over  the  Wil 
mington  railroad,  a  mile  and  a  half  south  of  Dudley  depot. 

A  platoon  had  commenced  the  pursuit ;  but  the  trumpets  sounded 
the  recall  before  the  flying  Americans  had  crossed  the  canal.  The 
presence  of  mind  and  lofty  language  of  the  heroic  wife,  had  con 
vinced  the  British  colonel  that  the  daring  men  who  so  fearlessly 
dashed  into  his  camp  were  supported  by  a  formidable  force  at  hand. 
Had  the  truth  been  known,  and  the  fugitives  pursued,  nothing  could 
have  prevented  the  destruction  not  only  of  the  four  who  fled,  but 
of  the  rest  of  the  company  on  the  east  side  of  the  plantation. 

Tarleton  had  ridden  back  to  the  front  of  the  house,  where  he 
remained  eagerly  looking  after  the  fugitives  till  they  disappeared 
in  the  wood.  He  called  for  the  tory  captain,  who  presently  came 
forward,  questioned  him  about  the  attack  in  the  woods,  asked  the 
names  of  the  American  officers,  and  dismissed  him  to  have  his 
wounds  dressed,  and  see  after  his  men.  The  last  part  of  the  order 
was  needless ;  for  nearly  one-half  of  his  troop  had  fallen.  The 
ground  is  known  to  this  day  as  the  Dead  Men's  Field. 

Another  anecdote,  communicated  by  the  same  friend  of  Mrs. 
Slocumb,  is  strikingly  illustrative  of  her  resolution  and  strength 
of  will.  The  occurrence  took  place  at  a  time  when  the  whole 
country  was  roused  by  the  march  of  the  British  and  loyalists  from 
the  Cape  Fear  country,  to  join  the  royal  standard  at  Wilmington. 
The  veteran  Donald  McDonald  issued  his  proclamation  at  Cross 
Creek,  in  February,  1776,  and  having  assembled  his  Highlanders, 
marched  across  rivers  and  through  forests,  in  haste  to  join  Governor 
Martin  and  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  who  were  already  at  Cape  Fear. 
But  while  he  had  eluded  the  pursuit  of  Moore,  the  patriots  of  New- 
bern  and  Wilmington  Districts  were  not  idle.  It  was  a  time  of 
noble  enterprise,  and  gloriously  did  leaders  and  people  come  for 
ward  to  meet  the  emergency.  The  gallant  Richard  Caswell  called 
his  neighbours  hastily  together ;  and  they  came  at  his  call  as  rea 
dily  as  the  clans  of  the  Scotch  mountains  mustered  at  the  signal 


ELIZABETH  F.   ELLET.  173 

of  the  burning  cross.  The  whole  country  rose  in  mass ;  scarce  a 
man  able  to  walk  was  left  in  the  Neuse  region.  The  united  regi 
ments  of  Colonels  Lillington  and  Caswell  encountered  McDonald 
at  Moore's  Creek  ;*  where,  on  the  twenty-seventh,  was  fought  one 
of  the  bloodiest  battles  of  the  Revolution.  Colonel  Slocumb's 
recollections  of  this  bravely-contested  field  were  too  vivid  to  be 
dimmed  by  the  lapse  of  years.  He  was  accustomed  to  dwell  but 
lightly  on  the  gallant  part  borne  by  himself  in  that  memorable 
action ;  but  he  gave  abundant  praise  to  his  associates ;  and  well 
did  they  deserve  the  tribute.  "And,"  he  would  say — "my  wife 
was  there  /"  She  was  indeed ;  but  the  story  is  best  told  in  her  own 
words : 

"  The  men  all  left  on  Sunday  morning.  More  than  eighty  went 
from  this  house  with  my  husband ;  I  looked  at  them  well,  and  I 
could  see  that  every  man  had  mischief  in  him.  I  know  a  coward 
as  soon  as  I  set  my  eyes  upon  him.  The  tories  more  than  once 
tried  to  frighten  me,  but  they  always  showed  coward  at  the  bare 
insinuation  that  our  troops  were  about. 

"  Well,  they  got  off  in  high  spirits ;  every  man  stepping  high 
and  light.  And  I  slept  soundly  and  quietly  that  night,  and  worked 
hard  all  the  next  day ;  but  I  kept  thinking  where  they  had  got  to 
— how  far ;  where  and  how  many  of  the  regulars  and  tories  they 
would  meet ;  and  I  could  not  keep  myself  from  the  study.  I  went 
to  bed  at  the  usual  time,  but  still  continued  to  study.  As  I  lay — 
whether  waking  or  sleeping  I  know  not — I  had  a  dream  ;  yet  it  was 
not  all  a  dream.  (She  used  the  words,  unconsciously,  of  the  poet 
who  was  not  then  in  being.)  I  saw  distinctly  a  body  wrapped  in 
my  husband's  guard-cloak — bloody — dead;  and  others  dead  and 
wounded  on  the  ground  about  him.  I  saw  them  plainly  and  dis 
tinctly.  I  uttered  a  cry,  and  sprang  to  my  feet  on  the  floor ;  and 
so  strong  was  the  impression  on  my  mind,  that  I  rushed  in  the 
direction  the  vision  appeared,  and  came  up  against  the  side  of  the 
house.  The  fire  in  the  room  gave  little  light,  and  I  gazed  in  gvery 
direction  to  catch  another  glimpse  of  the  scene.  I  raised  the  light ; 

*  Moore's  Creek,  running  from  north  to  south,  empties  into  the  South  River, 
about  twenty  miles  above  Wilmington. 


174  ELIZABETH   F.   ELLET. 

everything  was  still  and  quiet.  My  child  was  sleeping,  but  my 
woman  was  awakened  by  my  crying  out  or  jumping  on  the  floor. 
If  ever  I  felt  fear  it  was  at  that  moment.  Seated  on  the  bed,  I 
reflected  a  few  moments — and  said  aloud :  '  I  must  go  to  him.'  I 
told  the  woman  I  could  not  sleep,  and  would  ride  down  the  road. 
She  appeared  in  great  alarm ;  but  I  merely  told  her  to  lock  the 
door  after  me,  and  look  after  the  child.  I  went  to  the  stable,  sad 
dled  my  mare — as  fleet  and  easy  a  nag  as  ever  travelled ;  and  in 
one  minute  we  were  tearing  down  the  road  at  full  speed.  The  cool 
night  seemed  after  a  mile  or  two's  gallop  to  bring  reflection  with 
it ;  and  I  asked  myself  where  I  was  going,  and  for  what  purpose. 
Again  and  again  I  was  tempted  to  turn  back ;  but  I  was  soon  ten 
miles  from  home,  and  my  mind  became  stronger  every  mile  I  rode. 
I  should  find  my  husband  dead  or  dying — was  as  firmly  my  pre 
sentiment  and  conviction  as  any  fact  of  my  life.  When  day  broke, 
I  was  some  thirty  miles  from  home.  I  knew  the  general  route  our 
little  army  expected  to  take,  and  had  followed  them  without  hesita 
tion.  About  sunrise  I  came  upon  a  group  of  women  and  children, 
standing  and  sitting  by  the  roadside,  each  one  of  them  showing  the 
same  anxiety  of  mind  I  felt.  Stopping  a  few  minutes,  I  inquired 
if  the  battle  had  been  fought.  They  knew  nothing,  but  were 
assembled  on  the  road  to  catch  intelligence.  They  thought  Caswell 
had  taken  the  right  of  the  Wilmington  road,  and  gone  towards  the 
north-west  (Cape  Fear).  Again  was  I  skimming  over  the  ground 
through  a  country  thinly  settled,  and  very  poor  and  swampy ;  but 
neither  my  own  spirits  nor  my  beautiful  nag's  failed  in  the  least. 
We  followed  the  well-marked  trail  of  the  troops. 

"  The  sun  must  have  been  well  up,  say  eight  or  nine  o'clock, 
when  I  heard  a  sound  like  thunder,  which  I  knew  must  be  cannon. 
It  was  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  a  cannon.  I  stopped  still :  when 
presently  the  cannon  thundered  again.  The  battle  was  then  fight 
ing.  What  a  fool !  my  husband  could  not  be  dead  last  night,  and 
the  battle  only  fighting  now  !  Still,  as  I  am  so  near,  I  will  go  on 
and  see  how  they  come  out.  So  away  we  went  again,  faster  than 
ever ;  and  I  soon  found  by  the  noise  of  guns  that  I  was  near  the 
fight.  Again  I  stopped.  I  could  hear  muskets,  I  could  hear  rifles, 


ELIZA  BETH    F.    ELLET.  175 

and  I  could  hear  shouting.  I  spoke  to  my  mare  and  dashed  on  in 
the  direction  of  the  firing  and  the  shouts,  now  louder  than  ever. 
The  blind  path  I  had  been  following  brought  me  into  the  Wilming 
ton  road  leading  to  Moore's  Creek  Bridge,  a  few  hundred  yards 
below  the  bridge.  A  few  yards  from  the  road,  under  a  cluster  of 
trees  were  lying  perhaps  twenty  men.  They  were  the  wounded. 
I  knew  the  spot ;  the  very  trees ;  and  the  position  of  the  men  I 
knew  as  if  I  had  seen  it  a  thousand  times.  I  had  seen  it  all  night ! 
I  saw  all  at  once ;  but  in  an  instant  my  whole  soul  was  centred  in 
one  spot ;  for  there,  wrapped  in  his  bloody  guard-cloak,  was  my 
husband's  body  !  How  I  passed  the  few  yards  from  my  saddle  to 
the  place  I  never  knew.  I  remember  uncovering  his  head  and 
seeing  a  face  clothed  with  gore  from  a  dreadful  wound  across  the 
temple.  I  put  my  hand  on  the  bloody  face ;  'twas  warm  ;  and  an 
unknown  voice  begged  for  water.  A  small  camp-kettle  was  lying 
near,  and  a  stream  of  water  was  close  by.  I  brought  it ;  poured 
some  in  his  mouth ;  washed  his  face ;  and  behold — it  was  Frank 
Cogdell.  He  soon  revived  and  could  speak.  I  was  washing  the 
wound  in  his  head.  Said  he,  i  It  is  not  that ;  it  is  that  hole  in  my 
leg  that  is  killing  me.'  A  puddle  of  blood  was  standing  on  the 
ground  about  his  feet.  I  took  his  knife,  cut  away  his  trousers  and 
stocking,  and  found  the  blood  came  from  a  shot-hole  through  and 
through  the  fleshy  part  of  his  leg.  I  looked  about  and  could  see 
nothing  that  looked  as  if  it  would  do  for  dressing  wounds  but  some 
heart-leaves.  I  gathered  a  handful  and  bound  them  tight  to  the 
holes  ;  and  the  bleeding  stopped.  I  then  went  to  the  others ;  and 
— Doctor  !  I  dressed  the  wounds  of  many  a  brave  fellow  who  did 
good  fighting  long  after  that  day !  I  had  not  inquired  for  my 
husband ;  but  while  I  was  busy  Caswell  came  up.  He  appeared 
very  much  surprised  to  see  me ;  and  was  with  his  hat  in  hand  about 
to  pay  some  compliment :  but  I  interrupted  him  by  asking — '  Where 
is  my  husband  ?' 

" '  Where  he  ought  to  be,  madam ;   in  pursuit  of  the  enemy. 
But  pray,'  said  he,  '  how  came  you  here  ?" 

"  '  Oh,  I  thought,'  replied  I,  'you  would  need  nurses  as  well  as 
soldiers.     See  !  I  have  already  dressed  many  of  these  good  fellows  ; 


176  ELIZABETH  F.    ELLET. 

and  here  is  one' — going  to  Frank  and  lifting  him  up  with  my  arm 
under  his  head  so  that  he  could  drink  some  more  water — '  would 
have  died  before  any  of  you  men  could  have  helped  him.' 

"  'I  believe  you,'  said  Frank.  Just  then  I  looked  up,  and  my 
husband,  as  bloody  as  a  butcher,  and  as  muddy  as  a  ditcher,*  stood 
before  me. 

"  '  Why,  Mary !'  he  exclaimed,  '  What  are  you  doing  there  ? 
Hugging  Frank  Cogdell,  the  greatest  reprobate  in  the  army  ?' 

"  '  I  don't  care,'  I  cried.  6  Frank  is  a  brave  fellow,  a  good  sol 
dier,  and  a  true  friend  to  Congress.' 

"  '  True,  true  !  every  word  of  it !'  said  Caswell.  i  You  are  right, 
madam  !'  with  the  lowest  possible  bow. 

"I  would  not  tell  my  husband  what  brought  me  there.  I  was 
so  happy ;  and  so  were  all !  It  was  a  glorious  victory ;  I  came 
just  at  the  height  of  the  enjoyment.  I  knew  my  husband  wras  sur 
prised,  but  I  could  see  he  was  not  displeased  with  me.  It  was  night 
again  before  our  excitement  had  at  all  subsided.  Many  prisoners 
were  brought  in,  and  among  them  some  very  obnoxious :  but  the 
worst  of  the  tories  were  not  taken  prisoners.  They  were,  for  the 
most  part,  left  in  the  woods  and  swamps  wherever  they  were  over 
taken.  I  begged  for  some  of  the  poor  prisoners,  and  Caswell 
readily  told  me  none  should  be  hurt  but  such  as  had  been  guilty 
of  murder  and  house-burning.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  I  again 
mounted  my  mare  and  started  for  home.  Caswell  and  my  husband 
wanted  me  to  stay  till  next  morning  and  they  would  send  a  party 
with  me ;  but  no !  I  wanted  to  see  my  child,  and  I  told  them  they 
could  send  no  party  who  could  keep  up  with  me.  What  a  happy 
ride  I  had  back !  and  with  what  joy  did  I  embrace  rny  child  as  he 
ran  to  meet  me  !" 

What  fiction  could  be  stranger  than  such  truth  !  And  would  not 
a  plain  unvarnished  narrative  of  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the 
actors  in  Revolutionary  times,  unknown  by  name,  save  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  where  they  lived,  and  now  almost  forgotten  even  by  their 
descendants,  surpass  in  thrilling  interest  any  romance  ever  written  ! 

*  It  was  his  company  that  forded  the  creek,  and  penetrating  the  swamp,  made 
the  furious  charge  on  the  British  left  and  rear,  which  decided  the  fate  of  the  day. 


ELIZABETH    F.    ELLET.  177 

In  these  ciays  of  railroads  and  steam,  it  can  scarcely  be  credited 
that  a  woman  actually  rode  alone,  in  the  night,  through  a  wild 
unsettled  country,  a  distance — going  and  returning — of  a  hundred 
and  twenty-five  miles ;  and  that  in  less  than  forty  hours,  and  with 
out  any  interval  of  rest !  Yet  even  this  fair  equestrian,  whose  feats 
would  astonish  the  modern  world,  admitted  that  one  of  her 
acquaintances  was  a  better  horsewoman  than  herself.  This  was 
Miss  Esther  Wake,  the  beautiful  sister-in-law  of  Governor  Tryon, 
after  whom  Wake  County  was  named.  She  is  said  to  have  ridden 
eighty  miles — the  distance  between  Raleigh  and  the  Governor's 
head-quarters  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Colonel  Slocumb's  residence 
— to  pay  a  visit;  returning  the  next  day.  What  would  these 
women  have  said  to  the  delicacy  of  modern  refinement,  fatigued 
with  a  modern  drive  in  a  close  carriage,  and  looking  out  on  woods 
and  fields  from  the  windows ! 


E.  OAKES  SMITH. 


ABOUT  twelve  miles  from  the  city  of  Portland,  in  Maine,  a  pretty  cot 
tage  just  on  the  edge  of  a  thick  wood  is  pointed  out  by  the  neighbours 
with  a  feeling  of  pride,  as  the  birth-place  of  Mrs.  E.  Oakes  Smith.  Her 
maiden  name  was  Elizabeth  Oakes  Prince.  One  of  the  earliest  of  the 
settlers  of  Maine  was  an  ancestor  of  hers  by  the  name  of  Prince,  and 
there  is  a  tract  of  land  in  Maine,  called  "  Prince's  Point,"  where  her 
ancestors  settled  in  1630,  having  gone  there  from  Massachusetts.  Her 
grandfather  died  in  the  year  1849,  at  the  age  of  ninety-seven.  He  is 
described  as  having  been  a  tall,  handsome,  patriarchal  man,  in  appearance. 
Her  mother,  too,  is  described  as  an  imperious,  intellectual  woman,  with 
strong  characteristics,  and  exceedingly  beautiful.  Her  name  was  Blanch- 
ard,  and  she  is  of  Huguenot  descent.  On  the  father's  side  Mrs.  Smith  is 
of  a  puritan  family. 

She  gave  early  indications  of  genius.  The  only  circumstance  of  her 
childhood,  however,  that  seems  particularly  noticeable,  is  her  habit  while 
a  mere  girl,  of  dramatizing  little  extempore  plays,  when  as  yet  she  had 
never  seen  or  heard  of  such  a  thing,  and  in  a  family  where  Shakspeare 

was  regarded  as  an  abomination,  and  his  readers  as no  better  than 

they  should  be ! 

She  was  married  at  the  early  age  of  sixteen  to  Mr.  Seba  Smith,  so 
widely  known  as  the  original  "  Jack  Downing."  Mr.  Smith  at  the  time 
of  his  marriage  was  the  editor  of  the  leading  political  journal  of  Maine. 
They  are  at  present  living  in  New  York. 

Mrs.  Smith's  poems  have  never  been  fully  collected.  One  small  volume 
has  been  published,  and  has  run  through  seven  or  eight  editions.  "  The  Sin 
less  Child"  has  been  greatly  admired,  as  also  have  been  her  "  Sonnets," 
and  many  other  small  occasional  pieces.  Her  largest  work  in  verse  is  a 
tragedy,  called  «  The  Roman  Tribute,"  which  was  acted  in  New  York, 
but  I  believe  has  never  been  printed. 

(178) 


E.    OAKES    SMITH.  179 

As  a  prose  writer,  Mrs.  Smith  has  been  for  several  years  a  frequent 
contributor  to  the  leading  Magazines.  Her  contributions  of  this  sort, 
chiefly  stories  and  sketches,  would  make  several  volumes.  Her  magazine 
stories  are  chiefly  of  a  legendary  character,  and  many  of  them  are  con 
nected  with  the  history  of  her  native  State.  She  purposes  collecting  and 
publishing  them  under  the  title  of  "  Legends  of  Maine." 

Her  largest  story,  "  The  Salamander,"  was  published  in  a  volume  in 
1848.  She  has  chosen  for  the  scene  of  this  story  the  romantic  valley 
of  the  Ramapo,  in  the  State  of  New  York,  and  dated  it  about  two  centu 
ries  back.  It  is,  however,  purely  an  imaginative,  not  an  historical  work. 
There  may  be  facts  embodied  in  the  narrative,  of  which  types  are  to  be 
found  in  the  early  history  of  the  Dutch  colony,  as  there  may  be  descrip 
tions  of  scenery  corresponding  to  what  actually  exists  in  the  Ramapo  val 
ley.  But  the  ideas  which  form  the  staple  of  the  book,  and  which  give  it 
all  its  significance,  are  no  more  American,  than  the  ideas  of  the  "  Mid 
summer  Night's  Dream"  are  English.  The  work,  in  other  words,  is  purely 
of  an  imaginative  character.  It  is  founded  on  those  dark  mysterious 
legends — half  Christian,  half  pagan — which  prevailed  in  central  Germany 
during  the  middle  ages.  Out  of  these  wild  myths,  Mrs.  Smith  has  pro 
duced  a  fiction,  somewhat  over-bold  in  speculation,  occasionally  careless  in 
execution,  but  full  of  significance,  brilliant — almost  dazzling — in  some  of 
its  conceptions,  and  everywhere  teeming  with  grace  and  beauty. 

"  Riches  Without  Wings,"  « Western  Captive,"  "  Moss  Cup,"  and 
"  Dandelion,"  are  the  titles  of  some  of  her  smaller  volumes. 

At  present,  Mrs.  Smith  is  engaged  upon  a  series  of  papers  for  the  New 
York  Tribune,  called  "Woman  and  her  Needs." 

The  extracts  which  follow  are  taken  from  the  "  Salamander."  The  full 
significance  of  these  passages  does  not  appear,  when  they  are  thus  sun 
dered  from  their  connexion.  But  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  the 
descriptions  must  be  obvious  to  every  reader. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

WHILE  Hugo  saw  these  things  where  he  stood  high  up  in  the 
mountain,  his  eyes  followed  the  sparks  from  the  furnace,  and  he 
began  to  wonder  that  he  should  hear  the  sound  of  the  flame  at  such 
a  distance.  Then  he  bethought  himself  and  looked  around,  for, 
what  he  had  supposed  the  sound  from  the  heat  of  the  forge,  pro 
ceeded  from  something  close  to  his  feet,  at  which  he  marvelled, 
seeing  nothing.  It  was  a  short  tinkling  sound  as  if  many  metallic 
substances  rang  against  one  another,  and  crystals  clicked  their 


180  E.    OAKES   SMITH. 

angles  fretfully,  yet  all  making  most  clear  and  beautiful  melody. 
Observing  more  closely,  Hugo  beheld  a  toad  squatted  close  to  his 
ear  upon  a  shelf  of  the  rock,  whose  eyes  were  brighter  than  sap 
phires,  and  every  spot  upon  his  mottled  sides  had  become  a  gem 
while  he  sang : — 

In  the  cavern  we  lie  hidden, 

Gem,  and  crystal,  diamond  stone, 
Buried  are  we,  and  forbidden 

To  lay  bare  our  glittering  throne. 
Mystic  numbers,  sacred  symbols, 

Break  the  spell  that  now  enthralls  us. 
Hark  the  tabor  and  the  timbrels ; 

Up,  my  braves,  the  music  calls  us. 

Instantly  the  toad  began  to  move  itself  up  and  down,  thrusting 
out  its  short  loose  legs  in  the  strangest  fashion,  and  with  great 
apparent  glee.  Its  head  moved  from  side  to  side,  keeping  time  to 
the  music,  and  its  eyes  grew  every  moment  more  brilliant.  While 
Hugo  looked  on  laughing,  and  he  laughed  in  the  loudest  manner, 
for  he  was  a  bluff  hearty  man,  he  began  to  move  to  and  fro,  and 
wag  his  head  with  the  toad.  Then  he  saw  that  another  had  joined 
them  in  the  shape  of  a  serpent,  whereat  he  drew  back  in  terror ; 
but  the  snake  came  on,  erecting  his  head  and  glowing  in  his  bur 
nished  folds,  till  he  came  opposite  to  the  man  Hugo,  when  he  began 
to  move  from  side  to  side,  and  Hugo  did  the  same,  with  wonderful 
ease  and  pleasure ;  the  dance  growing  more  and  more  rapid,  and 
the  snake,  no  more  a  snake,  but  a  column  of  rubies  and  diamonds 
and  all  precious  stones,  changing  and  flashing  and  tinkling  their 
sharp  points,  and  rolling  and  writhing  in  the  ecstasy  of  light ;  just 
as  a  skilful  youth  tosses  many  marbles  into  the  air,  catching  them 
before  they  fall  to  the  ground,  and  they  ring  sharply  as  they  click 
one  against  another. 

There  was  a  slight  crash,  and  Hugo  saw  as  it  were  into  the 
bowels  of  the  mountain.  He  stooped  himself  and  peered  down, 
wondering  from  whence  came  so  great  a  light.  Then  he  saw  that 
the  earth  opened,  revealing  a  great  funnel,  the  sides  of  which  con 
sisted  of  projections  or  little  shelves  upon  which  rested  swarthy 


E.    OAKES   SMITH.  181 

creatures,  whose  eyes  were  gems,  and  lighted  the  cavern.  As 
Hugo  looked,  they  each  turned  themselves  heavily  and  rolled  their 
eyes  upon  him ;  and  as  they  did  so,  each  lifted  a  filmy  paw,  and 
showed  a  jewel  which  he  held  beneath,  so  bright  as  to  dazzle  the 
eyes  and  cast  a  flash  like  that  of  the  firefly  when  he  lifteth  his 
wings.  Hugo  felt  his  heart  burning  with  desire ;  he  longed  to 
reach  out  his  hand  and  seize  the  wealth  held  under  those  black 
claws ;  but  he  was  at  a  loss  which  to  take,  for  every  moment  one 
more  gorgeous  than  the  last  met  his  eyes. 

Still  peering  downward,  he  beheld  upon  the  floor  of  the  cavern 
a  huge  brown  creature  studded  with  crimson,  which  clung  to  the 
ground  as  the  haliotis  clings  to  the  rock;  but  seeing  the  eager 
desire  of  Hugo,  he  lifted  himself  and  showed  what  he  held  con 
cealed  ;  and  the  man  saw  a  burning  triangle,  with  a  word  written 
in  fire,  and  he  knew  that  that  was  the  word,  which  spoken  gives 
dominion  over  the  whole  earth. 

Hugo  roused  himself  with  a  great  shout,  trying  to  pronounce 
the  word ;  three  times  did  he  shout,  and  three  times  did  the  word 
escape  him ;  as  when  a  person  would  sneeze  and  the  power  is  lost 
just  in  the  act,  so  was  it  with  him,  and  he  was  filled  with  a  great  rage. 
When  he  would  have  tried  again,  he  felt  a  finger  soft  and  cool  laid 
in  the  shape  of  a  cross  upon  his  lips,  whereat  the  oaths  which  were 
gathering  there  fell  backward,  and  he  saw  the  fair  stately  form  of 
his  wife  looking  tenderly  upon  him,  but  she  did  not  speak.  When 
Hugo  would  have  spread  forth  his  arms  to  her,  he  met  only  the 
night  air ;  the  pale  stars  were  shining  reproachfully  upon  him,  and 
the  summer  air  lifted  his  locks  from  his  bare  head.  He  saw  the 
toad  plump  itself  into  a  hole,  and  the  tail  of  the  serpent  twirl 
spirally  as  he  slunk  away  among  the  rocks.  Hugo  thought  of  his 
wife,  and  for  awhile  the  vision  of  the  mountain  lost  its  power,  for 
his  true  human  heart  yearned  with  an  exceeding  love,  which  made 
all  things  else  poor  and  unworthy. 


Next  day  Hugo  placed  his  daughter  upon  a  white  palfrey,  while 
he  mounted  a  heavy  black  charger,  and  they  went  forth  together, 


182  E.   0  AXES   SMITH. 

following  the  river  as  it  wound  itself  out  of  the  glen  into  the  open 
plain.  Mary  forgot  her  grief,  and  carolled  like  a  bird,  hoping  to 
make  her  father  smile.  She  darted  ahead  at  full  speed,  and  then 
returned  showering  roses  in  her  path,  and  bound  the  head  of  her 
father's  horse  with  a  gay  chaplet.  Hugo  smiled  at  the  fooleries 
of  the  girl,  for  he  bethought  himself  of  her  mother,  and  restrained 
his  moodiness. 

When  they  came  out  where  the  country  spread  itself  into  a  broad 
meadow,  with  the  river  rolling  onward  and  the  silent  forest,  and 
the  high  mountains  lay  against  the  sky,  the  girl  drew  with  feelings 
of  awe  to  the  side  of  her  father,  and  rode  on  in  silence.  Ever  and 
anon  the  clear  sound  of  a  bugle  swrelled  out,  and  then  died  away  in 
the  distance — while  the  baying  of  hounds  told  of  courtly  sport. 
Mary  looked  on  every  side,  but  neither  dwelling  nor  human  being 
was  to  be  seen,  but  jangling  the  bells  of  her  harness  she  caught  the 
spirit  of  life  which  the  bugle  implied,  and  rode  gayly  onward. 

Reaching  a  lovely  glade  where  the  birches  trembled  lightly  over 
a  stream,  Hugo  dismounted,  and  they  sat  down  upon  the  bank. 
The  girl  feared  to  disturb  the  silence  of  her  father,  so  she  nestled 
to  his  side  and  pulled  the  violets  for  lack  of  something  to  do.  At 
length  he  said : 

"Mary,  what  is  the  word  which  the  spirit  keeps  up  in  the 
mountain?  I  have  tried  to  speak  it,  and  am  not  able." 

"It  is  an  ill  word,  dear  father,  that  removes  the  soul  from 
God." 

"Nevertheless,  speak  it,"  said  Hugo. 

"  I  dare  not  speak  a  word,  that  will  mix  my  nature  with  earth- 
spirits,  dear  father." 

"Thou  art  but  a  cowardly  girl,"  cried  Hugo;  "did  I  not  see 
wealth  such  as  the  greatest  monarch  might  envy,  and  did  I  not  see 
thrones  and  power  within  my  grasp,  save  that  this  palsied  tongue 
could  not  seize  the  word?" 

While  her  father  spoke  in  this  wise,  Mary  grew  pale,  and  knelt 
with  her  hands  folded  in  silence.  At  length  she  spoke  : 

"  It  is  a  fearful  word,  dear  father,  which  causes  the  crystal  gates 


E.    OAKES   SMITH.  183 

of  Paradise  to  glide  upon  their  hinges  and  shut  the  utterer  out  for 
ever." 

Hugo  ground  his  teeth  firmly,  and  said  in  a  voice  terrible,  it  was 
so  firm  and  loud — 

"  Speak,  child — I  would  know  it." 

Then  Mary  prayed,  saying,  "  Oh,  my  God !  let  the  knowledge 
fade  out  from  my  soul,  that  I  may  never  be  guilty  of  this  great 
sin." 

"Speak,"  said  her  father,  turning  pale  with  a  great  rage. 

The  clear  face  of  the  child  was  turned  to  that  of  the  dark  man, 
and  a  fair  smile  was  on  her  lips  as  she  answered, 

"  God  has  heard  my  prayer,  dear  father — I  know  it  not." 

"  Thou  liest,"  answered  the  fierce  man,  and  he  struck  the  child 
with  his  heavy  palm. 

Mary  threw  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her  father,  pale  and 
trembling,  whereat  a  sudden  pang  of  remorse  filled  him  with  shame 
and  grief;  but  when  he  saw  how  still  she  lay  in  his  arms,  he  grew 
fearful,  and  raised  her  up  and  looked  into  her  face.  She  lay  with 
out  breath  or  motion,  and  although  he  sprinkled  water  in  her  face 
from  the  brook,  and  called  her  passionately  back  to  life,  she  did 
not  lift  up  the  fringes  of  her  lids. 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  MAIDEN. 

AFTER  this  scene  upon  the  mountain,  the  stranger  no  longer 
wore  that  appearance  of  extreme  sadness,  which  before  had  created 
a  painful  interest  in  his  behalf :  he  no  longer  seemed  weighed  by 
those  deep  and  mysterious  thoughts,  that  shadow  forth  the  unseen 
world,  and  leave  us  without  the  sympathy  which  alone  makes  this 
life  cheerful;  now  a  fair  serenity  diffused  itself  in  his  mien,  and 
his  face  wore  a  placid  and  benign  candour  most  lovely  to  behold. 
There  was  a  joyful  upwardness  in  his  look,  and  a  genial  outward 
ness  in  his  eyes,  as  if  they  rested  lovingly  upon  God's  creatures, 
and  no  longer  were  content  with  selfish  introversion. 


184  E.    OAKES    SMITH. 

Mary  saw  the  change  in  the  youth  with  untold  delight;  she 
walked  by  his  side  and  listened  to  his  voice,  gathering  a  higher 
aspiration  from  her  noble  companionship.  Light  as  a  fawn,  she 
sported  beside  the  clear  brook,  and  the  melody  of  her  song  waked 
the  echoes  of  the  glen  to  sweeter  harmonies. 

Mary  and  the  youth  were  wandering  beyond  the  valley  where 
the  river  opened  into  the  plain,  talking  as  they  were  wont ;  they 
had  gone  onward,  beguiled  by  their  sweet  discourse,  and  did  not 
perceive  how  the  great  red  sun  burnished  the  hills  with  golden 
powder,  for  the  dense  trees  were  about  them,  and  only  his  sharp 
light  flecked  the  leaves  and  glanced  upon  the  boles  of  the  trees, 
now  glinting  the  shoulders  of  the  red-bird,  and  now  flashing  the 
green  mail  of  the  lizard,  or  turning  the  wings  of  the  dragon-fly  to 
rainbows — anon  the  coquettish  squirrel  caught  the  beam  in  his  full 
soft  eye,  and  the  timid  hare  showed  the  tracery  of  blood  in  his 
pink  ears  as  he  darted  across  their  path ;  the  mosses  were  like 
velvet  beneath,  and  the  frail  wild  flowers,  vestal  worshippers,  meek 
beautifiers  of  the  wilderness,  lifted  themselves  in  their  solitude, 
content  only  with  the  blessing  of  the  good  Father. 

Mary  drew  to  the  side  of  the  youth,  and  laid  her  hand  in  his, 
but  he  gently  removed  his  own  and  placed  it  upon  the  jewelled  hilt 
of  his  sword.  Mary's  cheek  turned  to  crimson ;  she  faltered,  and, 
stung  with  pride,  the  tears  gushed  to  her  eyes.  At  this  moment, 
they  heard  a  low  growl  above  their  heads,  and  splinters  of  bark 
were  scattered  at  their  feet ;  looking  up,  they  perceived  a  panther 
just  in  the  act  to  spring,  with  his  terrible  eyes  fixed  upon  the  vic 
tims  below.  Instantly  the  sword  of  the  young  man  sprang  from 
its  sheath,  and  the  ferocious  beast  alighted,  in  his  deadly  leap,  upon 
its  point. 

When  Mary  recovered  from  the  swoon  into  which  she  had  fallen, 
she  found  the  youth  standing  over  the  prostrate  animal  whose  blood 
was  dripping  from  his  sword  and  garments,  and  she  shrieked  with 
terror,  supposing  that  he  must  have  been  wounded.  With  kindly 
and  respectful  courtesy,  he  lifted  her  from  the  ground,  and  seating 
himself  by  her  side,  implored  her  to  be  tranquil. 


E.   OAKES   SMITH.  185 

"  I  must  leave  thee,  Mary ;  for  I  feel  assured  that  my  pilgrimage 
is  near  its  close." 

Mary  could  only  weep. 

"  There  is  much  that  I  would  tell  thee,  Mary;  but  I  know  not 
whether  thou  art  able  to  bear  it,"  the  youth  at  length  said. 

"  Shall  we  meet  again  ?"  faltered  the  child  in  a  low  voice.  His 
face  contracted  with  a  sharp  pang,  and  he  murmured,  "  Oh,  my 
God!  deliver  thou  me." 

"Mary,  I  am  in  deadly  peril;  I  beseech  thee  question  me  not," 
he  replied. 

Mary  looked  into  his  eyes,  so  full  of  their  clear  unearthly  light ; 
so  full  of  all  that  makes  a  human  heart  a  well-spring  of  ineffable 
blessedness,  and  overcome  with  the  flood  of  girlish  sympathy,  she 
cast  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  murmured,  "Do  not  leave  me." 

Poor  child  !  the  youth  arose  sternly  from  the  ground,  and  placing 
one  foot  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  beast  he  had  just  slain,  turned  his 
back  to  the  girl,  who  shrank  to  the  earth,  and  buried  her  face  in 
the  masses  of  curls  that  clustered  about  her  neck.  At  length,  the 
sobs  of  the  child  touched  even  his  stern  heart,  and  he  turned  him 
self  around :  but  oh  !  the  grief  and  agony  on  his  face  had  done  in 
minutes  the  work  of  years — he  who  a  moment  before  had  been  fair 
and  smooth  as  the  boy  of  eighteen  summers,  was  now  rigid,  stern, 
and  marked  by  those  outlines  of  thought,  which  come  only  when  the 
soul  has  wrestled  with  some  mighty  grief,  even  like  unto  that  of  the 
Patriarch  of  old,  when  he  wrestled  all  night  with  the  Angel  of  God. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  sinking  on  his  knees  beside  the  girl,  "I  must 
tell  thee  all,  and  then  if  thou  dost  weep,  and  lament,  the  judgment 
of  the  Eternal  will  be  completed  in  me." 

Mary  lifted  her  head — "Thou  wilt  go  —  shall  we  not  meet 
again?" 

The  youth  groaned  heavily. 

Mary's  pure  nature  taught  her  that  she  was  giving  pain,  and 
casting  her  selfishness  aside,  she  said : 

"  Wilt  thou  pardon  my  folly  ?  forget  me,  unless  thou  canst  also 
forget  this  unmaidenly  scene." 

The  youth  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  through  the  fingers 

24 


186  E.    OAKES   SMITH. 

Mary  saw  the  tears  trickle,  but  the  nature  of  them  was  soothing 
and  holy. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  thee,  Mary ;  wherever  in  the  mysteries  of 
God  I  may  be  transferred,  the  holiness  of  thy  affection  will  cause 
this  cheerless  earth,  in  which  and  for  which  I  have  suffered  so 
much,  to  be  none  other  than  the  Paradise  of  God;"  and  stooping 
downward  he  touched  the  tears,  which  had  fallen  upon  the  earth,  and 
they  became  a  chaplet  of  lilies  with  which  he  bound  the  head  of  Mary. 

"  Dost  thou  remember  the  gems  I  once  gave  thee,  Mary  ?  Then 
I  had  power  over  only  the  element  of  fire,  which  burns  and  con 
sumes,  or  hardens  to  the  rock,  but  now  the  water  and  the  life  are 
mine — behold  these  lilies — wear  them — for  thou  art  worthy." 

He  turned  his  steps  as  if  to  depart. 

"  Shall  we  meet  again  ?"  implored  the  child. 

The  youth  lifted  his  head  sorrowfully.  "  Shall  we  meet  again  ?" 
he  repeated  ;  "for  thy  sake,  for  mine,  I  have  questioned  too.  The 
knowledge  of  the  future  was  once  mine,  but  I  resigned  it  as  thou 
didst  thy  dangerous  knowledge,  and  now  the  eternal  world  is  hid 
den  from  me ;  I  tread  the  valley  of  darkness  more  dismayed,  than 
even  a  human  soul ;  now — now,  0  that  I  could  see !  What  is 
faith  to  the  once  prescient  Archangel  ?"  and  he  cast  himself  to  the 
earth,  overcome  with  his  terrible  thoughts. 

"  Shall  we  not  meet  again  ?  Oh  !  in  the  long  eternal  years  shall 
I  not  yearn  for  the  look,  the  tone,  for  which  even  now  I  peril  my 
redemption  ?  What  is  that  terrible  future  ?  How  shall  the  soul 
exist  floating  onward  for  ever  and  for  ever,  with  a  universe  of  suns 
receding  from  its  path,  if  it  bear  not  with  it  the  known  and  the 
loved  ?  How  will  it  shiver  and  shrink  from  the  gray  twilight  of  the 
eternal,  unless  folded  in  the  wings  of  a  love  which,  though  born  of 
earth,  leads  onward  to  God  ?  Mary,  Mary" — his  voice  ceased,  and 
he  fell  prostrate  to  the  earth. 


LOUISA  S.  M'COBD. 

MRS.  M'CoRD  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  Dec.  3,  1810. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  Langdon  Cheves,  Esq.,  so  well  known  in  our  pub 
lic  and  political  history.  She  was  educated  in  Philadelphia,  at  the  cele 
brated  school  of  Mr.  Charles  Picot,  during  her  father's  residence  in  that 
city;  resided  a  short  time  in  Lancaster,  Pennsylvania;  and  in  1828, 
returned  to  the  South,  where  in  May,  1840,  she  was  married  to  D.  J. 
M'Cord,  Esq.,  of  Columbia,  South  Carolina.  She  is  living  at  present  on 
a  plantation,  about  thirty  miles  below  Columbia. 

Mrs.  M'Cord  has  not  published  much,  but  quite  enough  to  show  that 
the  advantages  of  birth  and  education  so  liberally  granted  her,  have  not 
been  without  fruit.  She  is  one  of  the  few  women  who  have  undertaken 
to  write  on  the  difficult  subject  of  political  economy.  Her  contributions 
on  this  subject  to  the  Southern  Quarterly  Review  are  characterized  by 
masculine  vigour  and  an  enlarged  acquaintance  with  the  subject.  Among 
them  may  be  named  particularly  "  Justice  and  Fraternity,"  July,  1849  ; 
"The  Right  to  Labour,"  Oct.  1849;  "Diversity  of  Races,  its  Bearing 
upon  Negro  Slavery,"  April,  1851.  She  has  published  also  a  small 
volume,  called  "  Sophisms  of  Political  Economy,"  translated  from  the 
French  of  Frederick  Bastiat. 

Mrs.  M'Cord  is  also  favourably  known  as  a  poet.  A  volume  of  her 
poetry  entitled  "My  Dreams,"  appeared  in  1848;  and  in  1851,  she  pub 
lished  "  Caius  Gracchus,  a  Tragedy/'  by  far  the  most  elaborate  and  im 
portant  of  her  writings. 


THE  RIGHT  TO  LABOUR. 

WE  are  not  ultra  reformists ; — far  from  it ; — and  yet  we  are  of 
those  who  see,  in  the  present  condition  of  the  world,  the  waking  up 
of  a  new  era.  We  are  of  those  who  believe  in, — if  not  the  perfect- 

(187) 


188  LOUISA   S.   M' CORD. 

ibility  of  man, — at  least  his  great,  lasting,  and  boundless  improve 
ment.  Thought  is  roused,  mind  is  awakened,  which  never  again 
can  sleep.  Vainly  are  we  told  that  preceding  ages  have  shown 
equal  civilization  and  similar  improvement.  Vainly  is  our  attention 
directed  to  the  great  Nineveh,  to  Egypt,  to  Greece,  and  to  Home. 
These  certainly  do  show — these  have  shown — progression  and  re 
trogression,  rise  and  fall,  as  the  great  pulse  of  humanity  has 
throbbed  in  its  breathing  of  ages ;  but  never  has  the  world-soul 
been  roused,  as  now,  by  the  expansion  of  thought,  circulating  to 
distant  points  of  our  globe,  whose  very  existence  was  not  dreamed 
of  by  the  wise  of  ancient  days.  Never  has  the  great  heart  of 
civilization  cast,  as  now,  by  its  every  pulsation,  its  life-blood  to  the 
farthest  extremes  of  a  universe,  rousing  itself  from  unconscious 
infancy  to  the  full  action  of  a  reasoning  being.  Great  as  were  the 
efforts  of  the  ancients — great  as  were  the  results  of  those  efforts — 
they  were  confined  to  little  corners  of  a  world,  which  now  basks 
under  the  full  radiance  of  extended  and  extending  light.  And  yet, 
even  of  these  efforts,  nothing  has  been  lost.  The  soul  of  their 
civilization,  as  each  sank  in  its  ruins,  was  breathed  into  the  sur 
vivor,  until  at  last,  in  the  great  crash  of  Roman  power,  the  shat 
tered  remnants  of  its  pride  and  its  knowledge,  scattering  through 
Europe,  laid  the  basis  of  modern  civilization.  This  can  never  die — 
this  can  never  be  crushed.  If  driven  from  the  East  it  would  seek 
the  West ;  crushed  in  the  West  still  could  it  breathe  in  the  East. 
A  civilized  state  may  fall  back  into  barbarism  ;  a  civilized  world — 
never !  The  diffusive  spirit  of  Christianity,  the  wonderful  inven 
tion  of  letters,  the  discovery  of  our  Western  world,  the  wide-spread 
power  of  steam,  and  now  Heaven's  lightning,  by  science  tamed  to 
be  man's  messenger — these  put  us  on  a  pinnacle  which  Greece  and 
Rome  could  never  dream  of.  And  yet  the  world  is  young !  We 
look  not  into  its  future  ;  veiled  to  us  are  its  glories.  But  through 
the  mist  and  mystery  of  forthcoming  ages,  interpreted  by  the 
awakening  beam  of  the  past,  may  we  not  read  the  one  great  hope, — 
the  one  bright  truth, — man  is  improving,  improvable,  ceaselessly 
and  boundlessly ! 

Yet  not  for  this,  alas !  are  we  now  exempt  from  the  wildest 


LOUISA   S.    M 'CORD.  189 

follies,  the  grossest  vices.  France,  in  her  present  struggles,  shows 
a  mingling  chaos  of  all  that  is  best  and  wisest,  of  all  that  is  mad 
dest  and  worst.  Among  the  most  rampant  of  her  run-mad  fancies 
is  this  wild  dream  of  "fraternity"  and  socialism,  with  their  Icarias 
and  Utopian  worlds.  Would  that  these  were  confined  to  France 
alone  !  Unfortunately,  we  see  their  extravagant  madness  striding 
the  Atlantic  and  stamping  its  too  plainly  marked  foot-tracks  on  our 
own  shores.  That  terrible  fallacy  compacted  in  the  words,  "  The 
right  to  labour,"  is  rapidly  working  its  mischief.  "  The  right  of 
man  to  labour,  and  of  land  whereon  to  labour," — what  is  it,  as  our 
communists  interpret  it,  but  the  right  to  rob  ?  They  would  not 
labour  for  nothing,  nor  yet  for  such  compensation  as  the  true  value 
of  their  labour,  given  where  it  is  wanted  and  paid  for  as  it  is  needed, 
will  produce.  They  have  the  right  to  labour,  be  it  for  good  or  for 
ill.  They  have  the  right  to  be  paid  for  that  labour,  let  the  capital 
they  force  into  their  use  be  theirs  or  another's.  You  do  not  want 
my  work, — it  matters  not, — "I  have  a  right  to  work,  and  you, 
having  capital,  must  pay  me  for  such  work,  be  it  to  your  detriment 
or  your  benefit.  I  have  the  right  to  labour !" 

Within  this  specious  formula — "the  right  to  labour" — lie  con 
centrated  the  greater  number  of  those  terrible  fallacies  which  now 
threaten  to  overrun  and  devastate  civilized  society.  The  hydra  of 
communism  holds  struggling  in  its  deadly  folds  the  Hercules  of 
truth.  That  the  latter  conquers,  who  can  doubt  ?  Man's  nature, 
his  soul,  and  instinct,  alike  lead  him  to  the  light.  The  world  is 
progressive.  The  past  shows,  the  present  hopes  for,  and  the  future 
promises  this ;  but  fearful  are  the  doubts,  the  despondencies,  and 
the  agonies,  through  which  society  must  pass  to  attain  its  highest 
tone  !  Around  each  great  truth  is  gathered  a  crowd  of  errors — 
deceitful  reflections  of  its  beauty — giving  to  the  mischievous  a  pre 
text  for  ill,  and  often,  with  ignis  fatuus  light,  misleading  even  the 
true-hearted  and  the  good. 

There  are  crises  in  the  world's  course,  when,  rousing  from  tem 
porary  lethargy,  reason  seems  more  than  usually  wide  awake  to 
the  influence  of  truth  and  light.  But,  in  this  very  waking,  is  she 
also  more  subject  to  the  misleading  influence  of  error.  The  craving 


190  LOUISA   S.    M'  CORD. 

heart — the  longing,  seeking,  hungering  for  truth — is  roused ;  and, 
in  its  eager  search,  how  often,  alas !  is  the  will-o'-the-wisp  mistaken 
for  the  star-beam  !  Through  one  of  these  crises  are  we  now  strug 
gling.  The  world  is  in  labour  of  a  great  truth,  but  its  sick  fancy 
is  cheated  with  the  bewildering  dazzle  of  its  own  delirious  dreams. 
One  of  society's  closest  guards — a  kind  of  shepherd's  dog,  as  it 
were,  of  the  flock — stands  political  economy.  Watching,  barking, 
wrangling  at  every  intruder,  suspicious  of  outward  show,  nor  satis 
fied  with  skin-deep  inspection,  it  examines,  before  admitting  all 
pretenders  as  true  prophets,  and  strips  many  a  wolf  of  his  sheep's 
clothing.  The  evil-inclined,  thus,  naturally,  hoot  and  revile  it. 
The  ignorant  mistrust  it.  What  do  we,  its  advocates,  ask  in  its 
defence  ?  Simply  nothing,  but  that  the  world  should  learn  to  know 
it.  We  wish  no  law  for  its  imposition — no  tax  for  its  protection. 
Let  truth  be  but  heard :  there  is  in  the  heart  of  man  an  instinct  to 
know  and  to  seize  it.  Error  is  simply  negative ;  like  shadow,  it  is 
only  want  of  light.  Heaven's  sunbeam  on  the  material  world — 
reason's  effulgence  on  the  thinking  soul — alone  suffice  to  work 
God's  purposes.  Man,  his  humble  instrument,  cannot  make  the 
light ;  he  can  but  strive  to  remove  the  obstacles  which  intercept  its 
abundant  flow. 

We  ask,  then,  only  to  be  heard.  Let  the  world  know  us.  Let 
the  people  know  us.  Let  political  economy  be  the  science  of  the 
crowd.  It  is  neither  incomprehensible  nor  abstruse.  It  requires 
but  that  each  individual  man  should  think, — think — not  imagine, 
not  dream,  not  utopianize — but  think,  study,  and  understand  for 
himself.  Where  the  masses  are  ignorant,  what  more  natural  than 
that  they  stumble  into  wrong  ?  Mind  must  act ;  and  more  and 
more,  as  the  world  advances,  does  it  call  for  the  right  of  exerting 
and  developing  its  power.  In  earlier  ages,  learning,  information, 
thought,  being  limited  to  the  few,  the  masses  took  the  word  from 
these  high-priests  of  reason,  whose  veiled  holy  of  holies  was  sacred 
from  the  intrusion  of  the  crowd.  But,  now,  the  veil  is  rent  asunder. 
Not  you,  nor  we,  nor  he — nor  any  chosen  one — nor  ten,  nor  twenty 
—but  man, — now  claims  the  right  to  think  for  himself.  He  claims 
it ;  he  will  have  it ;  he  ought  to  have  it.  Let  but  those  who  are 


LOUISA    S.    M'CORD.  191 

ahead  in  the  race  of  knowledge  give  to  those  who  need ;  guide  those 
who  stumble  in  the  dark ;  and  each,  thus  putting  in  his  mite  of  well 
doing  in  the  cause,  ward  off,  as  much  as  possible,  the  calamities 
which  necessarily  hover  round  the  great  and  progressive  change 
through  which  the  world  is  passing.  Great  changes  are  oftenest 
wrought  out  only  through  great  convulsions.  It  is  a  man's  work, 
and  man's  heart  is  in  it,  when  the  humblest  individual,  with  shoul 
der  to  the  wheel,  stands  boldly  and  honestly  forth,  to  raise  his  hand 
in  warding  off  the  avalanche  of  evil. 

France,  which  now  stands  before  the  world,  in  the  agonies  of  her 
struggles — great  alike  in  truth  and  in  error — France  has  experi 
mented,  and  written  for  us,  in  her  sufferings,  a  mighty  lesson. 
May  we  but  read  and  learn  it !  Revelling  in  the  madness  of 
newly-gained  freedom,  her  people  not  knowing  the  use  of  what 
they  had  seized,  for  them  it  became  the  synonyme  of  license. 
Rushing  from  extreme  to  extreme,  they  forgot  that  liberty  was  but 
enfranchisement,  and,  with  "democracy"  for  their  watchword, 
exercised  a  despotism  much  more  fearful  than  that  of  the  single 
tyrant,  because  its  power,  like  its  name,  was  "legion." 

And  what  is  the  result  ?  Credit  dead ;  industry  paralyzed ; 
commerce  annihilated ;  her  starving  people  now  sinking  despondent 
under  their  difficulties — now  driven  to  the  madness  of  revolt, 
against  they  know  not  whom — asking,  they  know  not  what. 
France,  terrified  at  her  own  acts,  calls  out  for  succour,  and  on 
every  side  resound  the  answers  of  her  best  and  wisest  citizens: 
"Step  back  from  your  errors;  give  truth  its  way" — "laissez 
passer' ' — "  laissez  faire" 

Amidst  the  throng  of  confused  theories,  each  of  which  burns 
into  the  very  vitals  of  the  suffering  State,  its  brand  of  crime  and 
folly, 

t(  While  lean-looked  prophets  whisper  fearful  change," 

political  economy  alone,  with  its  great  and  simple  truths,  seems  to 
hold  forth  some  hope  of  a  real  regeneration.  It  alone  enjoins  upon 
its  disciples  to  follow,  step  by  step — to  sift  to  the  bottom  its  theo 
ries  and  their  remotest  effects — before  launching  the  world  upon 
untried  experiments.  It  alone  gropes  patiently  its  way,  grappling 


192  LOUISA   S.    M'CORD. 

with  doubts  and  difficulties,  making  sure  and  clear  its  footing, 
before  calling  upon  society  to  follow.  Its  opponents — socialists  of 
every  grade — leaping  blindfold  to  their  conclusions,  and  taking 
impulse  for  inspiration,  recklessly  drag  on  their  devotees  from  one 
wild  dream  to  another,  until 

"Contention,  like  a  horse, 
Full  of  high  feeding,  madly  doth  break  loose, 
And  bears  down  all  before  him." 

They  do  not  mean  the  evil  which  they  do.  Very  possibly,  their 
hearts  are  of  the  purest — but  their  ideas,  unfortunately,  not  of  the 
clearest.  Without  examining  into  the  practicability  of  their  own 
schemes,  they  give  way  to  a  misty  vision  of  goodness — a  kind  of 
foggy  virtue — which,  often  but  the  rush-light  of  their  own  unregu 
lated  fancy — too  indolent  or  too  cowardly  to  probe  to  its  source, 
and  follow  to  its  end — they  imagine  an  inward  light,  a  transmitted 
beam  of  heaven,  and  so  dream  on ! 


V " 

1  •   M 


ANN   S.   STEPHENS. 


MRS.  STEPHENS,  according  to  a  writer  in  Graham's  Magazine,*  was 
born  about  the  year  1810,  in  an  interior  village  of  the  State  of  Connec 
ticut.  She  was  married  at  an  early  age,  and  soon  after  removed  with  her 
husband  to  Portland,  Maine.  Subsequently,  they  changed  their  resi 
dence  to  New  York,  where  they  have  lived  ever  since. 

Mrs.  Stephens' s  literary  career  commenced  in  Portland.  Among  the 
first  of  her  friends  there,  was  John  Neal,  who  early  appreciated  her 
genius.  She  projected,  and  for  some  time  published,  the  "  Portland  Maga 
zine,"  to  which  she  gave  considerable  celebrity,  chiefly  through  her  own 
contributions.  On  removing  to  New  York,  she  engaged  in  writing  for  a 
more  extensive  circle  of  readers,  and  her  fame  rapidly  widened.  An  event 
occurred  soon  after  which  gave  to  her  name  a  special  eclat.  This  was  the 
winning  of  a  prize  of  four  hundred  dollars,  for  the  story  of  "  Mary  Der- 
went."  Whatever  she  has  written  since  that  time  has  been  in  great  demand 
among  periodical  publishers.  Her  tales,  sketches,  and  poems,  published 
in  this  way,  would  fill  several  volumes.  Unfortunately,  they  have  never 
been  collected  into  any  more  enduring  form  than  that  in  which  they  origi 
nally  appeared. 

Mrs.  Stephens  has  a  remarkable  talent  for  description,  seizing  always 
the  strongest  points  in  a  picture  and  bringing  them  out  into  bold  relief. 
In  the  conception  and  delineation  of  character,  too,  she  is  clear  and  com 
prehensive,  yet  working  out  her  views  more  by  descriptive  than  dramatic 
effect,  telling  how  her  characters  act,  rather  than  setting  them  into  action. 
In  regard  to  plot,  her  stories  are  simple,  and  rather  bare  of  incident,  as  if 
aiming  to  hurry  forward  the  reader  by  a  strong,  torrent-like  impulse, 
rather  than  to  entangle  him  in  a  curious  and  complicated  maze.  She  has 
shown  great  versatility,  apparently  vibrating  at  will  between  a  vein  of  the 

*  Charles  J.  Peterson. 
25  (193) 


194  ANN    S.    STEPHENS. 

richest  humour,  as  in  the  story  of  the  "  Patch-Work  Quilt,"  and  that  deep 
and  startling  tragedy  on  which  she  more  commonly  relies. 


THE  QUILTING  PARTY. 

A  THREE-SEATED  sleigh,  gorgeous  with  yellow  paint  and  gilding, 
drawn  by  two  horses  and  a  leader,  stopped  with  a  dash  by  the  door- 
yard  gate.  A  troop  of  girls,  cloaked  and  hooded  to  the  chin,  were 
disengaging  themselves  from  the  buffalo-robes  and  leaping  cheerily 
out  on  either  side,  while  the  driver  stood  in  front,  bending  back 
ward  in  a  vigorous  effort  to  hold  in  his  horses,  which  every  instant 
gave  a  leap  and  a  pull  upon  the  lines,  which  set  the  bells  a-ringing 
and  the  girls  a-laughing  with  a  burst  of  music  that  went  through 
the  old  house  like  a  flash  of  sunshine.  The  sleigh  dashed  up  the 
lane  in  quest  of  a  new  load,  while  the  cargo  it  had  just  left  were 
busy  as  so  many  humming-birds  in  Julia's  dressing-room.  Cloaks 
were  heaped  in  a  pile  on  the  bed,  hoods  were  flung  off,  and  half  a 
dozen  bright,  smiling  faces  were  peeping  at  themselves  in  the  glass. 
Never  was  an  old-fashioned  mirror  so  beset.  Flaxen  and  jetty 
ringlets,  braids  of  chestnut,  brown  and  ashy  gold  flashed  on  its 
surface — white  muslins,  rose-coloured  crapes,  and  silks  of  cerulean 
blue  floated  before  it  like  a  troop  of  sunset  clouds — eyes  glanced 
in  and  out  like  stars  reflected  in  a  fountain,  and  soft,  red  lips  trem 
bled  over  its  surface  like  rosebuds  flung  upon  the  same  bright 
waters. 

Again  the  sleigh  dashed  up  to  the  gate,  and  off  once  more.  Then 
we  all  gathered  to  the  out  room,  sat  demurely  down  by  the  quilt, 
and  began  to  work  in  earnest.  Such  frolic  and  fun  and  girlish  wit 
— such  peals  of  silvery  laughter  as  rang  through  that  old  house  were 
enough  to  make  the  worm-eaten  rafters  sound  again — such  a  snip 
ping  of  thread  and  breaking  of  needles — such  demand  for  cotton 
and  such  graceful  rolling  of  spools  across  the  "rising  sun"*  could 
only  be  witnessed  in  a  New  England  quilting  frolic.  The  fire 
snapped  and  blazed  with  a  sort  of  revel  cheerfulness  ;  it  danced  up 
and  down  over  the  old  mirror  that  hung  in  a  tarnished  frame  oppo- 
*  The  name  of  the  pattern  which  they  were  quilting. 


ANN   S.    STEPHENS.  195 

site,  and  every  time  the  pretty  girl  nearest  the  hearth-rug  lifted 
the  huge  tailor's  shears,  appropriated  to  her  use,  the  flame  flashed 
up  and  played  over  them  till  they  seemed  crusted  with  jewels.  One 
young  lady,  with  a  very  sweet  voice,  sung  "I'd  be  a  Butterfly," 
with  tumultuous  applause.  Miss  Narissa  exercised  her  sharp  voice 
in  "I  won't  be  a  Nun,"  and  two  young  ladies,  who  had  no  places 
at  the  quilt,  read  conversation  cards  by  the  fire. 

Toward  night-fall,  Miss  Elizabeth,  who  had  hovered  about  the 
quilt  at  intervals  all  the  afternoon,  appeared  from  the  middle  room 
and  whispered  mysteriously  to  Narissa,  who  got  up  and  went  out. 
After  a  few  minutes  the  amiable  sisters  returned,  and  with  smiling 
hospitality  announced  that  tea  was  ready. 

The  door  was  flung  wide  open,  and  a  long  table,  covered  to  the 
carpet  with  birds-eye  diaper,  stood  triumphantly  in  view.  We 
moved  toward  the  door,  our  garments  mingling  together,  and  some 
with  linked  arms,  laughing  as  they  went. 

Miss  Elizabeth  stood  at  the  head  of  the  table,  supported  by  a 
huge  Britannia  teapot  and  conical-shaped  sugar-bowl,  which  had 
officiated  at  her  grandmother's  wedding  supper.  She  waved  her 
hand  with  a  grace  peculiarly  her  own,  and  we  glided  to  our  chairs, 
spread  out  our  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  waited  patiently  while 
Miss  Elizabeth  held  the  Britannia  teapot  in  a  state  of  suspension 
and  asked  each  one  separately,  in  the  same  sweet  tone,  if  she  took 
sugar  and  cream.  Then  there  was  a  travelling  of  small-sized  China 
cups  down  the  table.  As  each  cup  reached  its  destination,  the 
recipient  bathed  her  spoon  in  the  warm  contents,  timidly  moistened 
her  lips,  and  waited  till  her  neighbour  was  served.  Then  two  plates 
of  warm  biscuit  started  an  opposition  route  on  each  side  the  board, 
followed  by  a  train  of  golden  butter,  dried  beef  and  sago  cheese. 

About  this  time  Miss  Narissa  began  to  make  a  commotion  among 
a  pile  of  little  glass  plates  that  formed  her  division  of  command. 
Four  square  dishes  of  currant  jelly,  quince  preserves,  and  clarified 
peaches,  were  speedily  yielding  up  their  contents.  The  little  plates 
flashed  to  and  fro,  up  and  down,  then  became  stationary,  each  one 
gleaming  up  from  the  snow-white  cloth  like  a  fragment  of  ice 
whereon  a  handful  of  half-formed  rubies  had  been  flung.  There 


196  ANN   S.    STEPHENS. 

was  a  hush  in  the  conversation,  the  tinkling  of  tea-spoons,  with  here 
and  there  a  deep  breath  as  some  rosy  lip  was  bathed  in  the  luscious 
jellies.  After  a  time  the  China  cups  began  to  circulate  around  the 
tea-tray  again,  conical-shaped  loaf  cakes  became  locomotive,  from 
which  each  guest  extracted  a  triangular  slice  with  becoming  gravity. 
Then  followed  in  quick  succession  a  plate  heaped  up  with  tiny 
heart-shaped  cakes,  snow-white  with  frosting  and  warmly  spiced 
with  carraway  seed,  dark-coloured  ginger-nuts  and  a  stack  of  jum 
bles,  twisted  romantically  into  true  lover's  knots  and  dusted  with 
sugar. 

Last  of  all  came  the  crowning  glory  of  a  country  tea-table.  A 
plate  was  placed  at  the  elbow  of  each  lady,  where  fragments  of 
pie,  wedge-shaped  and  nicely  fitted  together,  formed  a  beautiful  and 
tempting  Mosaic.  The  ruby  tart,  golden  pumpkin,  and  yet  more 
delicate  custard,  mottled  over  with  nutmeg,  seemed  blended  and 
melting  together  beneath  the  tall  lights,  by  this  time  placed  at  each 
end  of  the  table.  We  had  all  eaten  enough,  and  it  seemed  a  shame 
to  break  the  artistical  effect  of  these  pie  plates.  But  there  sat  Miss 
Elizabeth  by  one  huge  candlestick  entreating  us  to  make  ourselves 
at  home,  and  there  sat  Miss  Narissa  behind  the  other,  protesting 
that  she  should  feel  quite  distressed  if  we  left  the  table  without 
tasting  everything  upon  it.  Even  while  the  silver  tea-spoons  were 
again  in  full  operation,  she  regretted  in  the  most  pathetic  manner 
the  languor  of  our  appetites,  persisted  that  there  was  nothing  before 
us  fit  to  eat,  and  when  we  arose  from  the  table,  she  continued  to 
expostulate,  solemnly  affirming  that  we  had  not  made  half  a  meal, 
and  bemoaned  her  fate  in  not  being  able  to  supply  us  with  some 
thing  better,  all  the  way  back  to  the  quilting-room. 

Lights  were  sparkling,  like  stars,  around  the  "rising  sun,"  but 
we  plied  our  needles  unsteadily  and  with  fluttering  hands.  One 
after  another  of  our  number  dropped  off  and  stole  up  to  the  dress 
ing-chamber,  while  the  huge  mirror  in  its  tarnished  frame  seemed 
laughing  in  the  firelight,  and  enjoying  the  frolic  mightily  as  one 
smiling  face  after  another  peeped  in,  just  long  enough  to  leave  a 
picture  and  away  again. 

The  evening  closed  in  starlight,  clear  and  frosty.     Sleigh-bells 


ANN    S.    STEPHENS.  197 

were  heard  at  a  distance,  and  the  illuminated  snow  which  lay 
beneath  the  windows  was  peopled  with  shadows  moving  over  it,  as 
one  group  after  another  passed  out,  anxious  to  obtain  a  view  up  the 
lane. 

A  knock  at  the  nearest  front  door  put  us  to  flight.  Three  young 
gentlemen  entered  and  found  us  sitting  primly  around  the  quilt, 
each  with  a  thimble  on  and  earnestly  at  work,  like  so  many  birds 
in  a  cherry-tree.  Again  the  knocker  resounded  through  the  house, 
as  if  the  lion's  head  that  formed  it  were  set  to  howling  by  the  huge 
mass  of  iron  belabouring  it  so  unmercifully.  Another  relay  of 
guests,  heralded  in  by  a  gush  of  frosty  wind  from  the  entry,  was 
productive  of  some  remarkably  long  stitches  and  rather  eccentric 
patterns  on  the  "rising  sun,"  which,  probably,  may  be  pointed  out 
as  defects  upon  its  disc  to  this  day.  Our  fingers  became  more  hope 
lessly  tremulous,  for  some  of  the  gentlemen  bent  over  us  as  we 
worked,  and  a  group  gathered  before  the  fire,  shutting  out  the  blaze 
from  the  huge  mirror,  which  seemed  gloomy  and  discontented  at 
the  loss  of  its  old  playmate,  though  a  manly  form  slyly  arranging 
its  collar  and  a  masculine  hand  thrust  furtively  through  a  mass  of 
glossy  hair  did,  now  and  then,  glance  over  its  darkened  surface. 

The  lion's  head  at  the  door  continued  its  growls,  sleigh-bells 
jingled  in  the  lane,  smiles,  and  light  and  half-whispered  compliments 
circulated  within  doors.  Every  heart  was  brim  full  of  pleasurable 
excitement,  and  but  one  thing  was  requisite  to  the  general  happi 
ness — the  appearance  of  Old  Ben,  dear  old  black  Ben,  the  village 
fiddler.  Again  the  lion-knocker  gave  a  single  growl,  a  dying 
hoarse  complaint,  as  if  it  were  verging  from  the  lion  rampant  to 
the  lion  couchant.  All  our  guests  were  assembled  except  the 
doctor ;  it  must  be  he  or  Cousin  Rufus,  with  Old  Ben.  A  half 
score  of  sparkling  eyes  grew  brighter.  There  was  a  heavy  stamp 
ing  of  feet  in  the  entry,  which  could  have  arisen  from  no  single 
person.  The  door  opened,  and  Cousin  Rufus  appeared,  and  beyond 
him,  still  in  the  dusk,  stood  the  fiddler,  with  a  huge  bag  of  green 
baize  in  his  hand,  which  rose  up  and  down  as  the  old  negro  deli 
berately  stamped  the  snow,  first  from  one  heavy  boot,  then  from 
the  other,  and,  regardless  of  our  eager  glances,  turned  away  into 


198  ANN    S.    STEPHENS. 

the  supper-room,  where  a  warm  mug  of  gingered  cider  waited  his 
acceptance. 

What  a  time  the  fiddler  took  in  drinking  his  cider !  We  could 
fancy  him  tasting  the  warm  drink,  shaking  it  about  in  the  mug, 
after  every  deep  draught,  and  marking  its  gradual  diminution,  by 
the  grains  of  ginger  clinging  to  the  inside,  with  philosophical  calm 
ness — all  the  time  chuckling,  the  old  rogue,  over  the  crowd  of  im 
patient  young  creatures  waiting  his  pleasure  in  the  next  room. 

At  length,  Cousin  Rufus  flung  open  the  door  leading  to  the  long 
kitchen,  arms  were  presented,  white  hands  trembling  with  impa 
tience  eagerly  clasped  over  them,  and  away  we  went,  one  and  all, 
so  restless  for  the  dance  that  two-thirds  of  us  took  a  marching  step 
on  the  instant. 

The  old  kitchen  looked  glorious  by  candlelight.  Everywhere 
the  wreathing  evergreens  flung  a  chain  of  tremulous  and  delicate 
shadows  on  the  wall.  A  huge  fire  roared  and  flashed  in  the  chim 
ney,  till  some  of  the  hemlock  boughs  on  either  side  grew  crisp  and 
began  to  shower  their  leaves  into  the  flames,  which  crackled  the 
more  loudly  as  they  received  them,  and  darting  up  sent  a  stream 
of  light  glowing  through  the  upper  branches  and  wove  a  perfect 
net-work  of  shadows  on  the  ceiling  overhead.  The  birds  gleamed 
out  beautifully  from  the  deep  green,  the  tall  candles  glowed  in  their 
leafy  chandeliers  till  the  smooth  laurel  leaves  and  ground  pine  took 
more  than  their  natural  lustre  from  the  warm  light,  and  the  whole 
room  was  filled  with  a  rich  fruity  smell  left  by  the  dried  apples  and 
frost  grapes  just  removed  from  the  walls. 

Old  Ben  was  mounted  in  his  chair,  a  huge  seat  which  we  had 
tangled  over  with  evergreens.  He  cast  his  eye  down  the  columns 
of  dancers  with  calm  self-complacency,  took  out  his  fiddle,  folded 
up  the  green  baize  satchel,  and  began  snapping  the  strings  with  his 
thumb  with  a  sort  of  sly  smile  on  his  sharp  features  which,  with 
broken  music  sent  from  his  old  violin,  was  really  too  much  for 
patient  endurance. 

Miss  Narissa  Daniels  led  off  with  the  first  stamp  of  old  Ben's 
foot,  and  Elizabeth  stood  pensively  by,  evidently  reluctant  to  en 
gage  herself  before  the  doctor's  arrival ;  Julia  had  Cousin  Rufus 


ANN    S.    STEPHENS.  199 

for  a  partner,  and  I,  poor  wretch,  stood  up  half  pouting  with  Ebe- 
nezer  Smith,  who  distorted  his  already  crooked  countenance,  with 
a  desperate  effort  to  look  interesting,  and  broke  into  a  disjointed 
double  shuffle  every  other  moment. 

The  night  went  on  merrily.  It  seemed  as  if  the  warm  gingered 
cider  had  released  the  stiffened  fingers  of  our  fiddler,  for  the  old- 
fashioned  tunes  rung  out  from  his  instrument  loud  and  clear,  till 
every  nook  in  the  farm-house  resounded  with  them.  There  was 
dancing  in  that  long  kitchen,  let  me  assure  you,  reader,  hearty, 
gleeful  dancing,  where  hearts  kept  time  cheerily  to  the  music,  and 
eyes  kindled  up  with  a  healthier  fire  than  wine  can  give. 

I  have  been  in  many  a  proud  assembly  since  that  day,  where  the 
great  and  the  beautiful  have  met  to  admire  and  be  admired,  where 
lovely  women  glided  gracefully  to  and  fro  in  the  quadrille  with  so 
little  animation  that  the  flowers  in  their  hands  scarcely  trembled  to 
the  languid  motion.  But  we  had  another  kind  of  amusement  at 
Julia  Daniels's  quilting  frolic,  and  to  say  truth  a  better  kind — the 
grace  of  warm,  unstudied,  innocent  enjoyment,  spiced  perhaps  with 
a  little  rustic  affectation  and  coquetry. 


FRANCES  S.   OSGOOD. 


THE  maiden  name  of  Mrs.  Osgood  was  Frances  Sargent  Locke.  She 
was  a  native  of  Boston,  and  born  (we  believe)  about  the  year  1813.  Her 
early  life  was  passed  chiefly  in  the  village  of  Hingham.  She  gave  very 
early  indications  of  poetical  talent.  Her  abilities  in  this  respect  were  first 
recognised  by  Mrs.  Lydia  M.  Child,  who  was  then  editing  a  Juvenile 
Miscellany.  Miss  Locke  became  a  regular  contributor  to  this  work,  and 
subsequently  to  other  works,  under  the  name  of  "  Florence. "  She  was 
married  in  1834  to  Mr.  Osgood,  the  painter,  and  accompanied  him  soon 
after  to  London.  They  remained  in  the  great  metropolis  for  four  years, 
Mr.  Osgood  acquiring  an  enviable  reputation  as  an  artist,  and  Mrs.  Osgood 
as  a  writer.  After  their  return  to  the  United  States,  they  resided  chiefly 
in  New  York,  although  Mr.  Osgood  has  been  occasionally  absent  on  pro 
fessional  tours  to  different  parts  of  the  country.  In  1841,  Mrs.  Osgood 
edited  an  Annual,  "  The  Flowers  of  Poetry,  and  the  Poetry  of  Flowers/' 
and  in  1847,  "  The  Floral  Offering."  She  published  a  collection  of  her 
poems  in  1846,  and  in  1850  a  complete  collection  of  her  poetical  works 
in  one  large  octavo  volume.  This  work,  which  was  issued  in  sumptuous 
style,  contains  all  of  her  poems,  up  to  that  date,  which  she  thought  worthy 
of  preservation.  She,  however,  after  that  time  produced  some  few  other 
poems,  which  will  probably  take  their  place  in  future  editions  of  her 
works. 

Her  prose  contributions  to  the  magazines  were  numerous,  and  would 
make,  if  collected,  one  or  two  volumes.  Though  prose  in  name,  they  are 
all  essentially  poetical,  far  more  so  than  much  that  goes  under  the  name 
of  poetry.  Her  whole  life,  indeed,  as  it  has  been  well  remarked,  was  a 
continual  poem.  "  Not  to  write  poetry — not  to  think  it — act  it — dream 
it — and  be  it,  was  entirely  out  of  her  power." 

Mrs.  Osgood  died,  greatly  lamented,  in  May  1850. 

(200) 


FRANCES    S.    OSGOOD.  201 


THE  MAGIC  LUTE. 

My  beauty !  sing  to  me  and  make  me  glad ! 
Thy  sweet  words  drop  upon  the  ear  as  soft 
As  rose-leaves  on  a  well. — FESTUS. 

ON  a  low  stool  at  the  feet  of  the  Count  de  Courcy  sat  his  bride, 
the  youthful  Lady  Loyaline.  One  delicate,  dimpled  hand  hovered 
over  the  strings  of  her  lute,  like  a  snowy  bird,  about  to  take  wing 
with  a  burst  of  melody.  The  other  she  was  playfully  trying  to 
release  from  the  clasp  of  his.  At  last,  she  desisted  from  the 
attempt,  and  said,  as  she  gazed  up  into  his  proud  "unfathomable 
eyes" — 

"  Dear  De  Courcy  !  how  shall  I  thank  you  for  this  beautiful  gift? 
How  shall  I  prove  to  you  my  love,  my  gratitude,  for  all  your  gene 
rous  devotion  to  my  wishes  ?" 

Loyaline  was  startled  by  the  sudden  light  that  dawned  in  those 
deep  eyes ;  but  it  passed  away  and  left  them  calmer,  and  prouder 
than  before,  and  there  was  a  touch  of  sadness  in  the  tone  of  his 
reply — 

"  Sing  to  me,  sweet,  and  thank  me  so  !" 

Loyaline  sighed  as  she  tuned  the  lute.  It  was  ever  thus  when 
she  alluded  to  her  love.  His  face  would  lighten  like  a  tempest- 
cloud,  and  then  grow  dark  and  still  again,  as  if  the  fire  of  hope  and 
joy  were  suddenly  kindled  in  his  soul  to  be  as  suddenly  extin 
guished.  "What  could  it  mean  ?  Did  he  doubt  her  affection  ?  A 
tear  fell  upon  the  lute,  and  she  said,  "  I  will  sing 

THE  LADY'S  LAY." 

The  deepest  wrong  that  thou  couldst  do, 

Is  thus  to  doubt  my  love  for  thee, 
For  questioning  that  thou  question'st  too 

My  truth,  my  pride,  my  purity. 

'Twere  worse  than  falsehood  thus  to  meet 
Thy  least  caress,  thy  lightest  smile, 


202  FRANCES   S.    OSGOOD. 

Nor  feel  my  heart  exulting  beat 
With  sweet,  impassioned  joy  the  while. 

The  deepest  wrong  that  thou  couldst  do, 

Is  thus  to  doubt  my  faith  professed ; 
How  should  I,  love,  be  less  than  true, 

When  thou  art  noblest,  bravest,  best  ? 

The  tones  of  the  Lady  Loyaline's  voice  were  sweet  and  clear,  yet 
so  low.  so  daintily  delicate,  that  the  heart  caught  them  rather  than 
the  ear.  De  Courcy  felt  his  soul  soften  beneath  those  pleading 
accents,  and  his  eyes,  as  he  gazed  upon  her,  were  filled  with  unut 
terable  love  and  sorrow. 

How  beautiful  she  was !  With  that  faint  colour,  like  the  first 
blush  of  dawn,  upon  her  cheek — with  those  soft,  black,  glossy 
braids,  and  those  deep  blue  eyes,  so  luminous  with  soul !  Again 
the  lady  touched  her  lute — 

For  thee  I  braid  and  bind  my  hair 

With  fragrant  flowers,  for  only  thee ; 
Thy  sweet  approval,  all  my  care, 

Thy  love — the  world  to  me ! 

For  thee  I  fold  my  fairest  gown, 

With  simple  grace,  for  thee,  for  thee  ! 
No  other  eyes  in  all  the  town 

Shall  look  with  love  on  me. 

For  thee  my  lightsome  lute  I  tune, 

For  thee — it  else  were  mute— for  thee ! 
The  blossom  to  the  bee  in  June 

Is  less  than  thou  to  me. 

De  Courcy,  by  nature  proud,  passionate,  reserved,  and  exacting, 
had  wooed  and  won,  with  some  difficulty,  the  young  and  timid  girl, 
whose  tenderness  for  her  noble  lover  was  blent  with  a  shrinking 
awe,  that  all  his  devotion  could  not  for  awhile  overcome. 

At  the  time  my  story  commences,  he  was  making  preparations 
to  join  the  Crusaders.  He  was  to  set  out  in  a  few  days,  and,  brave 
and  chivalric  as  he  was,  there  were  both  fear  and  grief  in  his  heart, 
when  he  thought  of  leaving  his  beautiful  bride  for  years,  perhaps 
for  ever.  Perfectly  convinced  of  her  guileless  purity  of  purpose, 


FRANCES   S.   OSGOOD.  203 

thought  and  deed,  he  yet  had,  as  he  thought,  reason  to  suppose  that 
her  heart  was,  perhaps  unconsciously  to  herself,  estranged  from 
him,  or  rather  that  it  never  had  been  his.  He  remembered,  with 
a  thrill  of  passionate  grief  and  indignation,  her  bashful  reluctance 
to  meet  his  gaze — her  timid  shrinking  from  his  touch — and  thus 
her  very  purity  and  modesty,  the  soul  of  true  affection,  were  dis 
torted  by  his  jealous  imagination  into  indifference  for  himself  and 
fondness  for  another.  Only  two  days  before,  upon  suddenly  en 
tering  her  chamber,  he  had  surprised  her  in  tears,  with  a  page's 
cap  in  her  hand,  and  on  hearing  his  step,  she  had  started  up  blush 
ing  and  embarrassed,  and  hidden  it  beneath  her  mantle,  which  lay 
upon  the  couch.  Poor  De  Courcy  !  This  was  indeed  astounding ; 
but  while  he  had  perfect  faith  in  her  honour,  he  was  too  proud  to 
let  her  see  his  suspicions.  That  cap  !  that  crimson  cap  !  It  was 
not  the  last  time  he  was  destined  to  behold  it ! 

The  hour  of  parting  came,  and  De  Courcy  shuddered  as  he  saw 
a  smile — certainly  an  exulting  smile — lighten  through  the  tears  in 
the  dark  eyes  of  his  bride,  as  she  bade  him  for  the  last  time 
"farewell." 

A  twelvemonth  afterward,  he  was  languishing  in  the  dungeons 
of  the  East — a  chained  and  hopeless  captive. 


"  Ah !  fleeter  far  than  fleetest  storm  or  steed, 

Or  the  death  they  bear, 

The  heart,  which  tender  thought  clothes,  like  a  dove, 
With  the  wings  of  care !" 

The  Sultan  was  weary ;  weary  of  his  flowers  and  his  fountains — 
of  his  dreams  and  his  dancing-girls — of  his  harem  and  himself. 
The  banquet  lay  untouched  before  him.  The  rich  chibouque  was 
cast  aside.  The  cooling  sherbet  shone  in  vain. 

The  Almas  tripped,  with  tinkling  feet, 
Unmarked  their  motions  light  and  fleet ! 

His  slaves  trembled  at  his  presence ;  for  a  dark  cloud  hung  lower 
ing  on  the  brows  of  the  great  Lord  of  the  East,  and  they  knew, 


204  FRANCES    S.    OSGOOD. 

from  experience,  that  there  were  both  thunder  and  lightning  to 
come  ere  it  dispersed. 

But  a  sound  of  distant  plaintive  melody  was  heard.  A  sweet 
voice  sighing  to  a  lute.  The  Sultan  listened.  "  Bring  hither  the 
minstrel,"  he  said  in  a  subdued  tone ;  and  a  lovely,  fair-haired  boy, 
in  a  page's  dress  of  pale-green  silk,  was  led  blushing  into  the 
presence. 

"  Sing  to  me,  child,"  said  the  Lord  of  the  East.  And  the  youth 
touched  his  lute,  with  grace  and  wondrous  skill,  and  sang,  in  ac 
cents  soft  as  the  ripple  of  a  rill, 

THE  VIOLET'S  LOVE. 

Shall  I  tell  what  the  violet  said  to  the  star, 

While  she  gazed  through  her  tears  on  his  beauty,  afar? 

She  sang,  but  her  singing  was  only  a  sigh, 

And  nobody  heard  it,  but  Heaven,  Love,  and  I , 

A  sigh,  full  of  fragrance  and  beauty,  it  stole 

Through  the  stillness  up,  up,  to  the  star's  beaming  soul. 

She  sang — "  Thou  art  glowing  with  glory  and  might, 

And  I'm  but  a  flower,  frail,  lowly,  and  light. 

I  ask  not  thy  pity,  I  seek  not  thy  smile ; 

I  ask  but  to  worship  thy  beauty  awhile  ; 

To  sigh  to  thee,  sing  to  thee,  bloom  for  thine  eye, 

And  when  thou  art  weary,  to  bless  thee  and  die !" 

Shall  I  tell  what  the  star  to  the  violet  said, 

While  ashamed,  'neath  his  love-look,  she  hung  her  young  head  ? 

He  sang — but  his  singing  was  only  a  ray, 

And  none  but  the  flower  and  I  heard  the  dear  lay. 

How  it  thrilled,  as  it  fell,  in  its  melody  clear, 

Through  the  little  heart,  heaving  with  rapture  and  fear ! 

Ah  no  !  love !  I  dare  not !  too  tender,  too  pure, 
For  me  to  betray,  were  the  words  he  said  to  her ; 
But  as  she  lay  listening  that  low  lullaby, 
A  smile  lit  the  tear  in  the  timid  flower's  eye ; 
And  when  death  had  stolen  her  beauty  and  bloom, 
The  ray  came  again  to  play  over  her  tomb. 

Long  ere  the  lay  had  ceased,  the  cloud  in  the  Sultan's  eye  had 
dissolved  itself  in  tears.  Never  had  music  so  moved  his  soul. 


FRANCES   S.   OSGOOD.  205 

"  The  lute  was  enchanted !     The  youth  was  a  Peri,  who  had  lost 
his  way  !     Surely  it  must  be  so  !" 

"But  sing  me  now  a  bolder  strain!"  And  the  beautiful  child 
flung  back  his  golden  curls — and  swept  the  strings  more  proudly 
than  before,  and  his  voice  took  a  clarion-tone,  and  his  dark,  steel- 
blue  eyes  flashed  with  heroic  fire  as  he  sang 

THE    CRIMSON   PLUME. 

Oh !  know  ye  the  knight  of  the  red  waving  plume  ? 

Lo  !  his  lightning  smile  gleams  through  the  battle's  wild  gloom, 

Like  a  flash  through  the  tempest ;  oh  !  fly  from  that  smile ! 

'Tis  the  wild-fire  of  fury — it  glows  to  beguile ! 

And  his  sword-wave  is  death,  and  his  war-cry  is  doom ! 

Oh !  brave  not  the  knight  of  the  dark  crimson  plume  ! 

His  armour  is  black,  as  the  blackest  midnight ; 

His  steed  like  the  ocean-foam,  spotlessly  white ; 

His  crest — a  crouched  tiger,  who  dreams  of  fierce  J0j> — 

Its  motto — "Beware  !  for  I  wake — to  destroy !" 

And  his  sword-wave  is  death,  and  his  war-cry  is  doom ! 

Oh !  brave  not  the  knight  of  the  dark  crimson  plume  ! 

"  By  Allah  !  thou  hast  magic  in  thy  voice  !  One  more  !  and  ask 
what  thou  wilt.  Were  it  my  signet-ring,  'tis  granted  !" 

Tears  of  rapture  sprung  to  the  eyes  of  the  minstrel-boy,  as  the 
Sultan  spoke,  and  his  young  cheek  flushed  like  a  morning  cloud. 
Bending  over  his  lute  to  hide  his  emotion,  he  warbled  once  again — 

THE    BROKEN   HEART'S    APPEAL. 

Give  me  back  my  childhood's  truth  ! 
Give  me  back  my  guileless  youth ! 
Pleasure,  Glory,  Fortune,  Fame, 
These  I  will  not  stoop  to  claim ! 
Take  them  !     All  of  Beauty's  power, 
All  the  triumph  of  this  hour 
Is  not  worth  one  blush  you  stole — 
Give  me  back  my  bloom  of  soul ! 

Take  the  cup  and  take  the  gem  ! 

What  have  I  to  do  with  them  ? 

Loose  the  garland  from  my  hair  ! 

Thou  shouldst  wind  the  night-shade  there  ; 


•206  FRANCES    S.    OSGOOD. 

Thou  who  wreath'st,  with  flattering  art, 
Poison-flowers  to  bind  my  heart ! 
Give  me  back  the  rose  you  stole  ! 
Give  me  back  my  bloom  of  soul  ? 

"  Name  thy  wish,  fair  child.  But  tell  me  first  what  good  genius 
has  charmed  thy  lute  for  thee,  that  thus  it  sways  the  soul?" 

"  A  child-angel,  with  large  melancholy  eyes  and  wings  of  lam 
bent  fire — we  Franks  have  named  him  Love.  He  led  me  here  and 
breathed  upon  my  lute." 

"  And  where  is  he  now  ?" 

"  I  have  hidden  him  in  my  heart,"  said  the  boy,  blushing  as  he 
replied. 

"  And  what  is  the  boon  thou  wouldst  ask  ?" 

The  youthful  stranger  bent  his  knee,  and  said  in  faltering  tones 
— "  Thou  hast  a  captive  Christian  knight ;  let  him  go  free,  and 
Love  shall  bless  thy  throne  !" 

"  He  is  thine — thou  shalt  thyself  release  him.  Here,  take  my 
signet  with  thee." 

And  the  fair  boy  glided  like  an  angel  of  light  through  the  guards 
at  the  dungeon-door.  Bolts  and  bars  fell  before  him — for  he  bore 
the  talisman  of  Power — and  he  stood  in  his  beauty  and  grace  at 
the  captive's  couch,  and  bade  him  rise  and  go  forth,  for  he  was  free. 

De  Courcy,  half-awake,  gazed  wistfully  on  the  benign  eyes  that 
bent  over  him.  He  had  just  been  dreaming  of  his  guardian  angel ; 
and  when  he  saw  the  beauteous  stranger  boy — with  his  locks  of 
light — his  heavenly  smile — his  pale,  sweet  face — he  had  no  doubt 
that  this  was  the  celestial  visitant  of  his  dreams,  and,  following  with 
love  and  reverence  his  spirit-guide,  he  scarcely  wondered  at  his 
sudden  disappearance  when  they  reached  the  court. 


"  Pure  as  Aurora  when  she  leaves  her  couch, 
Her  cool,  soft  couch  in  Heaven,  and,  blushing,  shakes 
The  balmy  dew-drops  from  her  locks  of  light." 

Safely  the  knight  arrived  at  his  castle-gate,  and  as  he  alighted 


FRANCES    S.    OSGOOD.  207 

from  his  steed,  a  lovely  woman  sprang  through  the  gloomy  arch 
way,  and  lay  in  tears  upon  his  breast. 

"My  wife!  my  sweet,  true  wife!  Is  it  indeed  thou !  Thy 
cheek  is  paler  than  its  wont.  Hast  mourned  for  me,  my  love?" 
And  the  knight  put  back  the  long  black  locks  and  gazed  upon  that 
sad,  sweet  face.  Oh  !  the  delicious  joy  of  that  dear  meeting  !  Was 
it  too  dear,  too  bright  to  last  ? 

At  a  banquet,  given  in  honour  of  De  Courcy's  return,  some  of 
the  guests,  flushed  with  wine,  rashly  let  fall  in  his  hearing  an 
insinuation  which  awoke  all  his  former  doubts,  and,  upon  inquiry, 
he  found  to  his  horror  that  during  his  absence  the  Lady  Loyaline 
had  left  her  home  for  months,  and  none  knew  whither  or  why  she 
went,  but  all  could  guess,  they  hinted. 

De  Courcy  sprang  up,  with  his  hand  on  the  heft  of  his  sword, 
and  rushed  toward  the  chamber  of  his  wife.  She  met  him  in  the 
anteroom,  and  listened  calmly  and  patiently  as  he  gave  vent  to  all 
his  jealous  wrath,  and  bade  her  prepare  to  die.  Her  only  reply 
was — "  Let  me  go  to  my  chamber ;  I  would  say  one  prayer ;  then 
do  with  me  as  you  will." 

"Begone!" 

The  chamber  door  closed  on  the  graceful  form  and  sweeping 
robes  of  the  Lady  de  Courcy.  But  in  a  few  moments  it  opened 
again,  and  forth  came,  with  meekly  folded  arms,  a  stripling  in  a 
page's  dress  and  crimson  cap  ! — the  bold,  bright  boy  with  whom  he 
had  parted  at  his  dungeon-gate  !  "  Here  !  in  her  very  chamber  !" 
The  knight  sprang  forward  to  cleave  the  daring  intruder  to  the 
earth.  But  the  stranger  flung  to  the  ground  the  cap  and  the  golden 
locks,  and  De  Courcy  fell  at  the  feet,  not  of  a  minstrel-boy,  but  of 
his  own  true-hearted  wife,  and  begged  her  forgiveness,  and  blessed 
her  for  her  heroic  and  beautiful  devotion. 


ELIZABETH   C.   KINNEY. 


MRS.  KINNEY  is  a  native  of  New  York,  and  the  daughter  of  Mr.  David 
L.  Dodge,  a  wealthy  and  retired  merchant  of  that  city.  She  was  married 
in  1840  to  Mr.  William  B.  Kinney,  so  well  known  as  the  editor  of  the 
Newark  Daily  Advertiser,  and  as  the  leading  political  writer  in  the  State 
of  New  Jersey. 

To  Mrs.  Kinney,  the  language  of  song  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the 
instincts  of  her  nature,  and,  if  she  did  not  actually  "  lisp  in  numbers/'  her 
poetical  temperament  was  very  early  manifest,  and  has  always  been  very 
strong.  Her  poems,  which  have  been  profusely  scattered  through  the 
pages  of  the  Knickerbocker,  Graham,  and  Sartain,  have,  unfortunately, 
never  been  collected  into  any  more  enduring  shape.  She  commenced  pub 
lishing  under  the  name  of  "  Stedman,"  dating  from  "  Cedar  Brook,"  the 
country  residence  of  her  father,  near  Newark,  New  Jersey. 

With  the  exception  of  "  Aunt  Rachel,"  published  in  Sartain's  Magazine ; 
"The  Parsonage  Gathering,"  "My  Aunt  Polly,"  and  "Mrs.  Tiptop," 
in  Graham,  and  some  few  other  tales  and  sketches,  her  prose  writings  have 
appeared  in  the  Newark  Daily,  the  literary  department  of  which  has  been 
for  several  years  committed  to  her  hands.  The  critiques  and  essays  of 
various  kinds  that  have  graced  these  columns  are  among  the  best  things 
that  Mrs.  Kinney  has  written. 

Mrs.  Kinney,  in  1850,  went  to  Italy,  her  husband  having  received 
from  the  United  States  Government  the  appointment  to  the  Sardinian 
mission.  Her  talents  and  her  literary  reputation  have  secured  for  her  a 
very  flattering  reception  among  the  savants  and  the  court  circle  to  which 

she  has  been  accredited.     Their  residence  is  at  Turin. 

(208) 


ELIZABETH   C.    KINNEY.  209 


OLD  MAIDS. 

WE  might  say  "  maiden  ladies  !" — but  wish  to  redeem  two  plain 
monosyllables  from  a  certain  undefinable  stigma  that  they  have 
borne  too  long.  Old  implies  years,  and  years  imply  wisdom  ;  why 
should  we  despise  the  one  and  not  the  other  ?  Why,  unless  it  be 
that  the  word  old,  when  coupled  with  maid,  is  held  up  as  a  bugbear 
to  frighten  girls  into  hasty  and  injudicious  marriages ;  or  is  perverted 
into  another  term  for  a  shrivelled,  vinegar-faced  spinster,  in  whose 
nature  the  milk  of  human  kindness  has  been  soured  by  disappoint 
ment,  and  turns  to  acid  every  sweet  that  it  comes  in  contact  with. 
Words  being  but  signs  of  ideas,  if  such  is  the  apparition  conjured 
to  the  mind  of  any  by  the  phrase  old  maid,  we  cannot  wonder  that 
it  seems  formidably  odious.  To  us,  very  different  associations  are 
connected  with  it :  the  stigmatized  name  seems  almost  sacred,  con 
veying  to  the  mind,  as  it  does,  the  image  of  a  pure,  patient,  doing, 
and  enduring  spirit,  well  nigh  divested  of  the  selfishness  that, 
innate,  controls  the  infant,  the  child,  the  belle,  and  even  the  wife 
and  mother — that  ideal  of  perfected  woman ! — in  short,  the  embo 
diment  of  disinterestedness. 

And  who  that  will  take  off  the  glasses  of  prejudice,  look  around, 
and  call  up  recollections  of  domestic  life  either  at  home,  or  in  other 
homes,  can  fail  to  discover  some  female  form  and  face — possibly 
attenuated  and  wrinkled  by  time  and  care — moving  about  the  house 
from  morning  till  night,  ever  bent  on  some  errand  of  good  to  its 
inmates :  now  nursing  the  sick ;  now  contriving  some  delicacy  for 
the  table,  or  to  gratify  the  juvenile  appetite  ;  now  bravely  leading 
on  to  the  fight  a  soap  and  water  regiment,  at  that  semi-annual 
internal  revolution  called  house-cleaning,  herself  in  the  thickest  of 
the  fray  ;  now  arranging  wardrobes  for  the  Spring  and  Autumn 
comfort  of  all  the  household — save  herself ;  now  remaining  through 
the  heat  and  noxious  atmosphere  of  a  summer  in  the  city,  to  keep 
the  house  in  safety,  while  its  proprietor,  children,  and  even  ser 
vants  are  enjoying  cool  sea-breezes,  drinking  at  fountains  of  health, 
27 


•210  ELIZABETH   C.   KINNEY. 

or  roving  in  the  free  air  of  the  country  ;  now  out  watching  the 
moon,  with  weary  but  sleepless  eyes,  the  uninvited,  awaiting  the 
return  of  invited  guests  from  some  party  or  masquerade  ;  in  brief, 
spending  and  being  spent  in  the  service  of  perhaps  a  sister,  a  cousin, 
or  a  niece,  whose  return  for  untiring,  disinterested  affection,  is  the 
selfish  love  that  considers  its  recipient  invaluable,  not  as  a  gentle, 
unpretending  associate,  but  as  a  reliable  convenience ! 

But  let  us  look  at  the  causes,  as  well  as  effects,  of  single  life  in 
women.  If  the  histories  of  all  old  maids  were  written,  what  dis 
closures  of  female  heroism  would  be  made  !  In  how  many  cases 
could  celibacy  be  traced,  not  to  want  of  personal  or  mental  attrac 
tions  ;  nor  of  admiration  or  love  ;  but  to  that  heroic  nature  which, 
though  capable  of  the  deepest  and  most  enduring  passion,  has  the 
fortitude  to  live  alone,  rather  than  be  bound,  not  united,  to  an 
uncongenial  being.  And  if  "  He  that  ruleth  his  spirit  be  greater 
than  he  that  taketh  a  city,"  surely  she  that  ruleth  her  heart  is 
greater  than  she  that  taketh  a  name  for  the  sake  of  a  name ;  or  to 
avoid  one  stigmatized  indiscriminately. 

Love  is  the  instinct  of  the  female  heart :  almost  every  woman 
who  has  lived  to  see  thirty  years,  has  felt  the  outgoings  of  affec 
tion's  well-spring ;  but  hers  is  not  often  the  power  of  choosing, 
though  it  is  of  refusing.  Who  may  tell  the  inward  conflicts,  the 
unuttered  agonies,  the  protracted  soul-sickness  of  conquered  pas 
sion  ?  But  when  a  true  woman  once  triumphs  over  an  inexpedient 
or  unreciprocated  attachment,  she  triumphs  over  self,  and  becomes, 
that  noblest  of  feminine  spirits,  the  disinterested  friend  of  mankind  ! 
Be  sure  that  the  scandal-monger,  the  tart-mouthed  old  maid,  is  one 
whose  inner  heart  has  never  felt  the  wound  that  opens  a  passage 
for  human  sympathies  to  flow  out ;  but  is  smarting  under  superficial 
mortifications,  that,  like  poison  introduced  only  skin-deep,  fester 
and  irritate  continually.  Hare  are  such  cases,  and  yet  few  as  they 
are,  they  infect  the  general  mind,  so  that  old  maid,  thus  considered, 
is  a  noun  of  multitude,  including  all  who  choose  or  are  destined  to 
live  single  lives.  And  how  many  unhappy  marriages  are  the  con 
sequence  of  this  opprobrium  ! 

Even  the  single-hearted  piety  of  unmarried  females  is  derided. 


ELIZABETH    C.    KINNEY.  211 

Who  has  not  heard  such  ribaldry  as  this,  "  0,  she's  getting  religion 
now  that  she  can't  get  a  husband  ?"  But  it  is  the  inspired  Apostle 
who  says,  "The  unmarried  woman  careth  for  the  things  of  the 
Lord,  that  she  may  be  holy  both  in  body  and  in  spirit."  Thus  do 
we  see  oftenest  in  the  single  woman  that  perfect  love  to  God,  which 
manifests  itself  in  love  to  all  his  creatures. 

For  our  part,  we  venerate  the  very  name  of  Old  Maid — its  hero 
ism,  its  benevolence,  its  piety  !  Ye,  who  are  blessed  with  an  Aunt 
Fanny,  an  Aunt  Polly,  or  an  Aunt  Betsy — names  too  venerable  to 
be  spelled  with  the  modern  ie,  which  in  your  own,  perchance,  is 
substituted  for  the  old-fashioned  y — do  ye  ever  think  that,  though 
unwedded,  she  has  a  heart  alive  with  all  human  sympathies  ?  Ah, 
you  cannot  but  feel  this  in  her  countless  ministrations  for  your  com 
fort.  But  do  you  ever  realize  that  she  feels,  not  loved  for  herself 
in  return,  but  for  her  deeds,  and  weeps  silently  under  the  con 
sciousness  that  when  her  lonely,  loving  life  ceases  on  earth,  not  she, 
but  her  offices  of  kindness  will  be  missed  and  mourned  for  ? 

Such  are  some  of  the  obscurer  subjects  of  the  vulgar  prejudice 
against  "  Old  Maids  ;"  and  if  these  noiseless,  yet  immortalized  indi 
viduals,  "whose  names  are  written  in  the  Book  of  Life,"  are  such 
invaluable  members  of  the  household  and  of  society ;  what  shall  we 
say  of  Hannah  More,  of  Joanna  Baillie,  of  Maria  Edgeworth,  of 
Jane  Taylor,  of  our  own  Miss  Dix,  and  of  a  host  of  others,  whose 
names  are  written  in  the  universal  heart ;  some  of  whom  "  do  rest 
from  their  labours,"  and  all  of  whose  works  shall  live  after  them? 
For  ever  honoured,  and  through  these  renowned,  be  the  sisterhood 
of  Old  Maids. 


THE  SONNET. 


THERE  are  people  who  seem  to  think  that  an  intellectual  tasto 
for  certain  kinds  of  poetry,  or  an  ear  for  Italian  music  are  to  b  ' 
acquired;  like  a  physical  relish  for  olives,  tomatoes,  or  macaroni ! 
That  even  cultivated  minds  cannot  appreciate  some  styles  of  poetic 


212  ELIZABETH   C.    KINNEY. 

composition,  so  as  to  feel  the  sentiment  conveyed  in  them,  till 
familiarized  to  the  form  of  conveyance  :  and  that  no  ear — however 
delicately  attuned  by  the  great  Master — can  naturally  enjoy  the 
soul  of  melody  that  gushes  from  the  throats  of  Italia' s  songsters, 
because  Art  commingles  the  melting  strains  into  harmonious  pas 
sages,  giving  unity  to  multiplicity  of  sound ;  as  it  weaves  into 
musical  feet  the  inborn  idea- — the  breathing  thought  of  poesy. 
We  should  like  to  have  all  who  say  they  can  enjoy  natural,  but  not 
artistic  music,  visit  an  aviary  in  the  season  of  song ;  when  some 
fifty  vocal  throats — pitched  on  as  many  keys — are  striving  to 
drown  one  another's  tones :  we  never  hear  such  a  discord  "  of 
sweet  sounds"  from  Nature's  undrilled  troupe,  without  thinking,  if 
it  were  possible  for  Art  to  harmonize  the  warblers'  voices  together, 
what  a  tide  of  affluent  melody  would  overpower  the  senses  !  And 
would  it  be  less  Nature  s  music  than  before  ? 

The  truth  is,  that  such  as  hear  only  artificial  tones  from  Italy's 
50rw-songsters — made  artists  by  study  and  practice — have  not  the 
ear  for  natural  melody  that  they  boast  of;  but  one  in  sympathy 
with  discordant  sounds.  So  he  that  cannot  recognise  at  once  the 
native  soul  of  poetry,  in  whatever  form  presented,  has  imagined 
himself  an  admirer  of  poetry,  when  only  in  love  with  certain  forms 
of  expression  and  musical  cadences,  while  insensible  to  the  spirit  and 
power  of  the  poetic  thought  they  embody ;  and  he  is  so  constituted 
in  mind  as  never  to  acquire  any  true  appreciation  of  at  least  one 
form  of  the  beautiful.  We  noticed  recently  in  a  periodical  paper 
a  Sonnet  introduced  by  the  following  paragraph : 

"We  have  an  utter,  relentless,  unmitigated  dislike,  aversion, 
horror,  for  those  fourteen-lined  effusions,  called  Sonnets.  They 
remind  us  of  a  child  struggling  to  walk  in  swaddling  clothes.  They 
are  puny  ideas  on  stilts.  They  have  a  central  thought,  which,  like 
the  centre  of  gravity,  is  never  seen.  The  poor  thing  flounders 
about  like  a  man  running  tied  up  in  a  sack.  It  is  a  puzzle  for 
children  of  a  larger  growth.  Like  a  glass  thread,  one  wonders 
how  it  is  spun,  or  how  the  apple  got  into  the  dumplings !" 

Nor  is  the  above  the  expression  of  an  uncommon  sentiment 
regarding  Sonnets.  Now,  no  lover  of  the  Sonnet  will  affirm  that 


ELIZABETH   C.    KINNEY.  213 

even  its  beautiful  form  of  composition,  ever  so  artistically  wrought 
out  of  rich  material,  can  affect  the  human  mind,  unless  the  vital 
spark  animates  the  whole,  any  more  than  other  forms  of  art  through 
which  no  spiritual  meaning  is  conveyed.  But  he,  who  in  a  true 
Sonnet  can  see  nothing  but  the  imaginary  laborious  process  of  its 
execution,  would  probably  stand  before  a  Grecian  temple  calculating 
the  labour  and  manner  of  its  construction ;  while  the  lover  of  Art, 
blind  to  its  processes,  in  silent  awe  worshipped  the  grandeur  of  its 
complete  manifestation. 

A  Sonnet,  in  the  highest  sense,  naturally  obeys  the  law  of  art, 
which  is  to  conceal  its  processes.  And  where,  in  the  Sonnets  of 
Petrarch,  of  Milton,  of  Shakspeare,  of  Coleridge,  or  of  Wordsworth, 
can  any  "anointed  eye"  see  the  least  shadow  of  constraint,  or 
trace  of  effort  ?  So  unconstrainedly  do  the  poetic  language  and 
imagery  arrange  their  metrical  feet  in  the  beautiful  order  of  the 
Sonnet, — while  the  one  luminous  idea,  like  electricity,  runs  through 
the  whole, — that  the  mind  which  can  perceive,  sees  only  the  radiant 
thought,  yet  feels  that  a  harmonious  chain  is  its  conductor. 

Nor  is  the  Sonnet  such  an  effort  to  the  poet,  as  the  machine 
poetaster  or  mechanical  reader  may  suppose.  All  will  allow  that 
love  utters  itself  through  the  most  natural  forms  of  expression. 
Petrach's  love  for  Laura  gave  birth  to  the  Sonnet :  it  was  not  the 
invention  of  mechanical  genius ;  but  a  living  creation,  that  owes  its 
being  to  the  strong  emotions  of  hopeless  passion.  And,  if,  when 
reproduced  in  its  original  likeness,  its  beauty  and  vital  power 
are  unfelt,  depend  upon  it,  the  fault  is  not  in  the  Sonnet. 

Born  in  Italy — and  how  can  anything  lack  music  or  warmth  that 
originated  under  those  glowing  skies  ? — and  introduced  into  England 
by  Lord  Surrey,  the  Sonnet  has  for  centuries  been  the  medium  of 
conveying  and  receiving  the  richest  gems  of  poetic  thought  and 
fancy.  In  our  opinion,  Wordsworth's  Sonnets,  save  one  or  two 
Odes,  are  worth  all  his  other  poems ;  and  he  has  said, 

"Scorn  not  the  Sonnet;  Critic,  you  have  frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honours  ;  with  this  key 
Shakspeare  unlocked  his  heart;  the  melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound ; 


214  ELIZABETH   C.    KINNEY. 

A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound ; 

Camoens  soothed  with  it  an  exile's  grief; 

The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 

His  visionary  brow :  a  glow-worm  lamp, 
It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Fairy-land 

To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and,  when  a  damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 

The  thing  became  a  trumpet,  whence  he  blew 

Soul-animating  strains— alas,  too  few!" 

But  the  Sonnet  is  not  confined  to  the  Old  World : — certain  also 
of  our  own  poets  have  with  this  magic  "key"  unlocked  the  heart; 
with  this  "glow-worm  lamp,"  shed  light  into  the  enshrouded  mind ; 
with  this  "pipe,"  awakened  tones  musical  as  the  shepherd  god  sent 
through  Arcadian  vales ;  with  this  "  myrtle  leaf,"  made  green  again 
the  cypress-crowned  brow ;  with  this  "trumpet,"  sounded  the  victory 
of  the  spirit  over  human  passions  and  earth-born  hopes. 

"And  what  shall  we  say  more  ?  Time  would  fail  us  to  tell  of" 
all  that  the  Sonnet  has  effected — of  all  who  have  made  it  the 
mighty  instrument  for  the  soul's  unwritten  music. 


HARRIET    FARLEY. 


SOON  after  the  commencement  of  the  present  century,  a  young  minister, 
named  Stephen  Farley,  was  settled  in  the  beautiful  town  of  Claremont, 
New  Hampshire,  his  native  State ;  and,  as  the  rich  soil  on  the  banks  of 
the  Connecticut  was  full  of  good  things  for  the  present,  and  good  promise 
for  the  future ;  as  the  lively  falls  of  Sugar  river  could  be  induced  to  turn 
their  active  energies  to  the  accumulation  of  comforts  and  wealth ;  the  new 
preacher  was  easily  persuaded  to  bring  a  young  bride  to  alleviate  his  cares 
and  heighten  his  joys.  She  was  born  in  Massachusetts,  the  child  of  a 
father  who  had  derived  so  rich  an  inheritance  that,  in  her  early  childhood, 
it  might  not  have  been  supposed  the  daughter  would  ever  be  called  upon 
to  eke  out  a  frugally  genteel  subsistence  by  school  teaching.  Such,  how 
ever,  was  her  employment  in  Maine,  where  she  went  to  reside  with  her 
mother,  after  the  sudden  death  of  her  father.  That  mother  was  of  the 
celebrated  "  Moody"  family,  so  well  known  once  throughout  New  Eng 
land,  and  not  yet  extinct,  being  still,  whether  on  the  high  seas,  or  near 
the  forests  of  their  native  State,  or  in  the  metropolis  of  that  section  of  the 
country,  or  at  the  capital  of  the  Union,  or  away  in  the  new  cities  of  the 
far  West — being  everywhere  distinguished  for  cultivation,  urbanity,  hos 
pitality,  family  pride,  patriotism,  and  all  those  qualities  which  distinguish 
the  gentry  of  the  "  old  school." 

"Father  Moody,"  so  often  quoted  in  the  provincial  history  of  New 
England,  was  the  ancestor  of  this  family.  "  Handkerchief  Moody,"  his 
son,  the  hero  of  Hawthorne's  story  of  "  The  Minister's  Veil,"  is  embalmed 
in  many  memories  for  his  piety  and  affliction.  He  committed  an  acci 
dental  murder,  and  ever  after  covered  his  face  from  his  fellow  men. 
"  Master  Moody,"  the  celebrated  preceptor  of  "  Dummer  Academy," 
wished  that  his  niece  had  been  a  man,  that  he  might  have  given  her  a 
collegiate  education.  She  was  remarkable  not  only  for  intellectual  quali 
ties,  but  for  the  graceful  dignity  becoming  to  any  woman. 

(215) 


216  HARRIET    FARLEY. 

After  her  husband's  death,  she  went  with  her  children  to  the  old  town 
of  York,  in  the  District  of  Maine,  and  thither  the  young  New  Hampshire 
minister  repaired  to  find,  in  her  daughter,  his  future  helpmeet.  She  was 
a  beautiful  and  very  animated  woman,  with  fine  taste,  much  wit,  and 
unusual  conversational  powers.  Among  her  rejected  admirers  were  those 
who  have  since  become  Judges,  and  otherwise  "  potent,  grave,  and  reverend 
seigniors."  The  calm,  studious,  sober  minister,  was  her  choice ;  and,  in 
an  humble  country  cottage,  she  reared  her  little  brood  of  children. 

But  afflictions  came.  Ill  health  and  mental  disquiet,  the  conflict  of  a 
speculative  mind  with  venerated  creeds  and  cherished  belief,  impaired  the 
energies  of  the  father.  And  then  the  dark  cloud,  that  had  cast  its  gloom 
over  Handkerchief  Moody's  life,  and  settled  in  blackness  over,  the  close  of 
her  father's,  cast  its  fearful  shadow  upon  the  mother's  mind ;  and,  through 
her,  a  sombre  shade  upon  her  family.  Some  years  after,  the  mental  sun 
broke  through  this  cloud,  and  shone  for  a  long  time  within  the  home 
stead  ;  then  again  came  the  sad  eclipse  which,  in  this  world,  may  never 
pass  away.  During  the  interval  of  brightness,  came  the  tenth,  and  last, 
of  the  household  band,  more  than  half  of  whom  have  been  taken  away. 

HARRIET  FARLEY  was  the  sixth  of  these  children.  She  was  born  amidst 
the  beautiful  scenery  of  the  Connecticut  valley,  but  educated,  principally, 
in  the  quiet  town  of  Atkinson,  New  Hampshire,  where  her  father  was 
both  pastor  of  the  parish  and  preceptor  of  the  academy. 

Prior  to  her  fifteenth  year,  her  advantages  were  good  for  obtaining  an 
English  and  classical  education.  But  she  often  expresses  her  regret  that 
these  advantages  were  not  duly  appreciated ;  that  she  was  deprived  in  a 
great  measure  of  a  mother's  influence,  and  gave  to  light  literature  and 
social  enjoyment  too  much  of  the  golden  hours  that  should  have  been  de 
voted  to  more  solid  intellectual  acquisitions. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  the  truth  came  home  to  the  poor  minister's  daugh 
ter,  that  upon  herself  she  must  henceforth  depend  for  her  subsistence. 
School  teaching,  sewing,  straw  plaiting,  and  shoe  binding,  were  succes 
sively  tried,  but  none  suited ;  and  so  she  went  to  the  factory.  Here  she 
perseveringly  laboured  for  several  years,  returning  home  when  the  sick 
or  dying  required  her  presence,  and  once  leaving  the  mills  for  several 
months  to  attend  school. 

In  1840  the  "Improvement  Circle"  was  established,  to  which  she 
became  a  constant  contributor.  Soon  after,  the  establishment  of  the 
"  Lowell  Offering"  disseminated  the  knowledge  of  these  mill-girls'  efforts 
throughout  our  own  and  other  countries.  Though  the  work  first  attracted 
attention  as  a  mere  literary  novelty,  it  was  not  destitute  of  intrinsic  merit  j 
and  the  writers'  were  stimulated  by  praise  and  patronage.  Miss  Farley 
was  invited  to  edit  the  third  volume,  a  task  which  she  combined  with  mill- 
labour.  With  editorial  labours  she  combined  the  care  of  the  "  Home 
Department,"  in  publishing  the  fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth  volumes. 


HARRIET    FARLEY.  217 

The  seventh  volume  she  edited  and  published  alone,  charging  herself 
with  all  the  duties  of  editor,  publisher,  and  agent.  The  book-keeping, 
mailing,  canvassing,  and  all  else,  devolved  on  her.  Since  that  time  she 
has  employed  an  assistant,  to  mail  the  numbers,  keep  office,  and  accounts, 
and  do  the  stitching  and  folding. 

She  has  contributed  but  little  to  other  publications.  Her  literary 
claims  and  history  are  pretty  much  confined  to  that  of  the  "  Offering." 
This  work  has  gained  kind  notices,  in  Great  Britain,  Germany,  and 
France,  from  eminent  literati.  Compilations  from  it  have  been  pub 
lished  in  England  and  Scotland,  and  there  have  been  some  translations  in 
foreign  tongues. 

The  first  article,  written  expressly  for  publication,  was  "  Abby's  Year 
in  Lowell,"  a  story  which  was  reprinted  in  Edinburgh,  by  the  Messrs. 
Chambers,  in  their  series  of  cheap  publications  for  the  million.  It  is, 
perhaps,  as  good  a  specimen  of  her  style  as  can  be  given. 


ABBY'S  YEAR  IN  LOWELL. 

"  MR.  ATKINS,  I  say !  Husband,  why  can't  you  speak  ?  Do 
you  hear  what  Abby  says  ?" 

"  Anything  worth  hearing  ?"  was  the  responsive  question  of  Mr. 
Atkins ;  and  he  laid  down  the  New  Hampshire  Patriot,  and  peered 
over  his  spectacles  with  a  look  which  seemed  to  say,  that  an  event 
so  uncommon  deserved  particular  attention. 

"  Why,  she  says  that  she  means  to  go  to  Lowell,  and  work  in 
the  factory." 

"Well,  wife,  let  her  go;"  and  Mr.  Atkins  took  up  the  Patriot 
again. 

"  But  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  spare  her ;  the  spring  cleaning  is 
not  done,  nor  the  soap  made,  nor  the  boys'  summer  clothes ;  and 
you  say  that  you  intend  to  board  your  own  'men-folks,'  and  keep 
two  more  cows  than  you  did  last  year ;  and  Charley  can  scarcely 
go  alone.  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  get  along  without  her." 

"But  you  say  she  does  not  assist  you  any  about  the  house." 

"Well,  husband,  she  might." 

"  Yes,  she  might  do  a  great  many  things  which  she  does  not 
think  of  doing ;  and  as  I  do  not  see  that  she  means  to  be  useful 
here,  we  will  let  her  go  to  the  factory." 

28 


218  HARRIET    FARLEY. 

"Father!  are  you  in  earnest?  May  I  go  to  Lowell?"  said 
Abby ;  and  she  raised  her  bright  black  eyes  to  her  father's  with  a 
look  of  exquisite  delight. 

"  Yes,  Abby,  if  you  will  promise  me  one  thing ;  and  that  is,  that 
you  will  stay  a  whole  year  without  visiting  us,  excepting  in  case 
of  sickness,  and  that  you  will  stay  but  one  year." 

"  I  will  promise  anything,  father,  if  you  will  only  let  me  go  ;  for 
I  thought  you  would  say  that  I  had  better  stay  at  home  and  pick 
rocks,  and  weed  the  garden,  and  drop  corn,  and  rake  hay ;  and  I 
do  not  want  to  do  such  work  any  longer.  May  I  go  with  the 
Slater  girls  next  Tuesday,  for  that  is  the  day  they  have  set  for 
their  return  ?" 

"Yes,  Abby,  if  you  will  remember  that  you  are  to  stay  a  year, 
and  only  one  year." 

Abby  retired  to  rest  that  night  with  a  heart  fluttering  with  plea 
sure  ;  for  ever  since  the  visit  of  the  Slater  girls  with  new  silk 
dresses,  and  Navarino  bonnets  trimmed  with  flowers,  and  lace  veils, 
and  gauze  handkerchiefs,  her  head  had  been  filled  with  visions  of 
fine  clothes  ;  and  she  thought  if  she  could  only  go  where  she  could 
dress  like  them,  she  should  be  completely  happy.  She  was  natu 
rally  very  fond  of  dress,  and  often,  while  a  little  girl,  had  she  sat 
on  the  grass  bank  by  the  roadside  watching  the  stage  which  went 
daily  by  her  father's  retired  dwelling ;  and  when  she  saw  the  gay 
ribbons  and  smart  shawls,  which  passed  like  a  bright  phantom 
before  her  wondering  eyes,  she  had  thought  that,  when  older,  she 
too  would  have  such  things  ;  and  she  looked  forward  to  womanhood 
as  to  a  state  in  which  the  chief  pleasure  must  consist  in  wearing 
fine  clothes. 

But  as  years  passed  over  her,  she  became  aware  that  this  wras  a 
source  from  which  she  could  never  derive  any  enjoyment  whilst  she 
remained  at  home ;  for  her  father  was  neither  able  nor  willing  to 
gratify  her  in  this  respect,  and  she  had  begun  to  fear  that  she  must 
always  wear  the  same  brown  cambric  bonnet,  and  that  the  same 
calico  gown  would  always  be  her  "  go-to-meeting  dress."  And  now 
what  a  bright  picture  had  been  formed  by  her  ardent  and  unculti 
vated  imagination  !  Yes,  she  would  go  to  Lowell,  and  earn  all  that 


HARRIET    FARLEY.  219 

she  possibly  could,  and  spend  those  earnings  in  beautiful  attire ; 
she  would  have  silk  dresses — one  of  grass  green,  and  another  of 
cherry  red,  and  another  upon  the  colour  of  which  she  would  decide 
when  she  purchased  it ;  and  she  would  have  a  new  Navarino  bon 
net,  far  more  beautiful  than  Judith  Slater's ;  and  when  at  last  she 
fell  asleep,  it  was  to  dream  of  satin  and  lace,  and  her  glowing 
fancy  revelled  all  night  in  a  vast  and  beautiful  collection  of  milli 
ners'  finery. 

But  very  different  were  the  dreams  of  Abby's  mother ;  and 
when  she  awoke  the  next  morning,  her  first  words  to  her  husband 
were,  "Mr.  Atkins,  were  you  serious  last  night  when  you  told 
Abby  that  she  might  go  to  Lowell  ?  I  thought  at  first  that  you 
were  vexed  because  I  interrupted  you,  and  said  it  to  stop  the 
conversation." 

"  Yes,  wife,  I  was  serious,  and  you  did  not  interrupt  me,  for  I 
had  been  listening  to  all  that  you  and  Abby  were  saying.  She  is 
a  wild,  thoughtless  girl,  and  I  hardly  know  what  it  is  best  to  do 
with  her ;  but  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  to  try  an  experiment,  and 
let  her  think  and  act  a  little  while  for  herself.  I  expect  that  she 
will  spend  all  her  earnings  in  fine  clothes ;  but  after  she  has  done 
so,  she  may  see  the  folly  of  it ;  at  all  events,  she  will  be  rather 
more  likely  to  understand  the  value  of  money  when  she  has  been 
obliged  to  work  for  it.  After  she  has  had  her  own  way  for  one 
year,  she  may  possibly  be  willing  to  return  home  and  become  a 
little  more  steady,  and  be  willing  to  devote  her  active  energies 
(for  she  is  a  very  capable  girl)  to  household  duties,  for  hitherto 
her  services  have  been  principally  out  of  doors,  where  she  is  now 
too  old  to  work.  I  am  also  willing  that  she  should  see  a  little  of 
the  world,  and  what  is  going  on  in  it;  and  I  hope  that,  if  she 
receives  no  benefit,  she  will  at  least  return  to  us  uninjured." 

"  Oh,  husband,  I  have  many  fears  for  her,"  was  the  reply  of 
Mrs.  Atkins,  "  she  is  so  very  giddy  and  thoughtless ;  and  the 
Slater  girls  are  as  hairbrained  as  herself,  and  will  lead  her  on  in 
all  sorts  of  folly.  I  wish  you  would  tell  her  that  she  must  stay  at 
home." 


220  HARRIET   FARLEY. 

"  I  have  made  a  promise,"  said  Mr.  Atkins,  "  and  I  will  keep  it ; 
and  Abby,  I  trust,  will  keep  hers." 

Abby  flew  round  in  high  spirits  to  make  the  necessary  prepara 
tions  for  her  departure,  and  her  mother  assisted  her  with  a  heavy 
heart. 


The  evening  before  she  left  home,  her  father  called  her  to  him, 
and  fixing  upon  her  a  calm,  earnest,  and  almost  mournful  look,  he 
said,  "  Abby,  do  you  ever  think?"  Abby  was  subdued  and  almost 
awed  by  her  father's  look  and  manner.  There  was  something  unu 
sual  in  it — something  in  his  expression  which  was  unexpected  in 
him,  but  which  reminded  her  of  her  teacher's  look  at  the  Sabbath 
school,  when  he  was  endeavouring  to  impress  upon  her  mind  some 
serious  truth. 

"Yes,  father,"  she  at  length  replied,  "I  have  thought  a  great 
deal  lately  about  going  to  Lowell." 

"  But  I  do  not  believe,  my  child,  that  you  have  had  one  serious 
reflection  upon  the  subject,  and  I  fear  that  I  have  done  wrong  in 
consenting  to  let  you  go  from  home.  If  I  were  too  poor  to  main 
tain  you  here,  and  had  no  employment  about  which  you  could  make 
yourself  useful,  I  should  feel  no  self-reproach,  and  would  let  you 
go,  trusting  that  all  might  yet  be  well ;  but  now  I  have  done  what 
I  may  at  some  future  time  severely  repent  of;  and,  Abby,  if  you 
do  not  wish  to  make  me  wretched,  you  will  return  to  us  a  better, 
milder,  and  more  thoughtful  girl." 

That  night  Abby  reflected  more  seriously  than  she  had  ever  done 
in  her  life  before.  Her  father's  words,  rendered  more  impressive 
by  the  look  and  tone  with  which  they  were  delivered,  had  sunk  into 
her  heart  as  words  of  his  had  never  done  before.  She  had  been 
surprised  at  his  ready  acquiescence  in  her  wishes,  but  it  had  now  a 
new  meaning.  She  felt  that  she  was  about  to  be  abandoned  to 
herself,  because  her  parents  despaired  of  being  able  to  do  anything 
for  her ;  they  thought  her  too  wild,  reckless,  and  untameable  to  be 
softened  by  aught  but  the  stern  lessons  of  experience.  I  will  sur 
prise  them,  said  she  to  herself;  I  will  show  them  that  I  have  some 


HARRIET   FARLEY.  221 

reflection ;  and  after  I  come  home,  my  father  shall  never  ask  me 
if  I  think.  Yes,  I  know  what  their  fears  are,  and  I  will  let  them 
see  that  I  can  take  care  of  myself,  and  as  good  care  as  they  have 
ever  taken  of  me.  I  know  that  I  have  not  done  as  well  as  I  might 
have  done ;  but  I  will  begin  now,  and  when  I  return,  they  shall  see 
that  I  am  a  better,  milder,  and  more  thoughtful  girl.  And  the 
money  which  I  intended  to  spend  in  fine  dress  shall  be  put  into  the 
bank ;  I  will  save  it  all,  and  my  father  shall  see  that  I  can  earn 
money,  and  take  care  of  it  too.  Oh  how  different  I  will  be  from 
what  they  think  I  am ;  and  how  very  glad  it  will  make  my  father 
and  mother  to  see  that  I  am  not  so  very  bad  after  all ! 

New  feelings  and  new  ideas  had  begotten  new  resolutions,  and 
Abby's  dreams  that  night  were  of  smiles  from  her  mother,  and 
words  from  her  father,  such  as  she  had  never  received  nor  deserved. 

When  she  bade  them  farewell  the  next  morning,  she  said  nothing 
of  the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  her  views  and  feelings,  for 
she  felt  a  slight  degree  of  self-distrust  in  her  own  firmness  of 
purpose. 

Abby's  self-distrust  was  commendable  and  auspicious ;  but  she 
had  a  very  prominent  development  in  that  part  of  the  head  where 
phrenologists  locate  the  organ  of  firmness  ;  and  when  she  had  once 
determined  upon  a  thing,  she  usually  went  through  with  it.  She 
had  now  resolved  to  pursue  a  course  entirely  different  from  that 
which  was  expected  of  her,  and  as  different  from  the  one  she  had 
first  marked  out  for  herself.  This  was  more  difficult,  on  account 
of  her  strong  propensity  for  dress,  a  love  of  which  was  freely  grati 
fied  by  her  companions.  But  when  Judith  Slater  pressed  her  to 
purchase  this  beautiful  piece  of  silk,  or  that  splendid  piece  of  mus 
lin,  her  constant  reply  was,  "  No,  I  have  determined  not  to  buy 
any  such  things,  and  I  will  keep  my  resolution." 

Before  she  came  to  Lowell,  she  wondered,  in  her  simplicity,  how 
people  could  live  where  there  were  so  many  stores,  and  not  spend 
all  their  money ;  and  it  now  required  all  her  firmness  to  resist  being 
overcome  by  the  tempting  display  of  beauties  which  met  her  eyes 
whenever  she  promenaded  the  illuminated  streets.  It  was  hard  to 
walk  by  the  milliners'  shops  with  an  unwavering  step ;  and  when 


222  HARRIET    FARLEY. 

she  came  to  the  confection  aries,  she  could  not  help  stopping.  But 
she  did  not  yield  to  the  temptation ;  she  did  not  spend  her  money 
in  them.  When  she  saw  fine  strawberries,  she  said  to  herself,  "  I 
can  gather  them  in  our  own  pasture  next  year;"  when  she  looked 
upon  the  nice  peaches,  cherries,  and  plums,  which  stood  in  tempting 
array  behind  their  crystal  barriers,  she  said  again,  "  I  will  do  with 
out  them  this  summer;"  and  when  apples,  pears,  and  nuts,  were 
offered  to  her  for  sale,  she  thought  that  she  would  eat  none  of  them 
till  she  went  home.  But  she  felt  that  the  only  safe  place  for  her 
earnings  was  the  savings'  bank,  and  there  they  were  regularly 
deposited,  that  it  might  be  out  of  her  power  to  indulge  in  moment 
ary  whims.  She  gratified  no  feeling  but  a  newly-awakened  desire 
for  mental  improvement,  and  spent  her  leisure  hours  in  reading 
useful  books. 

Abby's  year  was  one  of  perpetual  self-contest  and  self-denial ; 
but  it  was  by  no  means  one  of  unmitigated  misery.  The  ruling 
desire  of  years  was  not  to  be  conquered  by  the  resolution  of  a  mo 
ment  ;  but  when  the  contest  was  over,  there  was  for  her  the  tri 
umph  of  victory.  If  the  battle  was  sometimes  desperate,  there 
was  so  much  more  merit  in  being  conqueror.  One  Sabbath  was 
spent  in  tears,  because  Judith  Slater  did  not  wish  her  to  attend 
their  meeting  with  such  a  dowdy  bonnet;  and  another  fellow- 
boarder  thought  her  gown  must  have  been  made  in  "  the  year  one." 
The  colour  mounted  to  her  cheeks,  and  the  lightning  flashed  from 
her  eyes,  when  asked  if  she  had  ''•just  come  down;"  and  she  felt 
as  though  she  should  be  glad  to  be  away  from  them  all,  when  she 
heard  their  sly  innuendoes  about  "bush-whackers."  Still  she  re 
mained  unshaken.  It  is  but  for  a  year,  said  she  to  herself,  and  the 
time  and  money  that  my  father  thought  I  should  spend  in  folly 
shall  be  devoted  to  a  better  purpose. 


At  the  close  of  a  pleasant  April  day,  Mr.  Atkins  sat  at  his 
kitchen  fireside,  with  Charley  upon  his  knee.  "Wife,"  said  he  to 
Mrs.  Atkins,  who  was  busily  preparing  the  evening  meal,  "is  it 
not  a  year  since  Abby  left  home  ?" 


HARRIET    FARLEY.  223 

"  Why,  husband,  let  me  think :  I  always  clean  up  the  house 
thoroughly  just  before  fast-day,  and  I  had  not  done  it  when  Abby 
went  away.  I  remember  speaking  to  her  about  it,  and  telling  her 
that  it  was  wrong  to  leave  me  at  such  a  busy  time ;  and  she  said, 
'  Mother,  I  will  be  at  home  to  do  it  all  next  year.'  Yes,  it  is  a 
year,  and  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  she  should  come  this  week." 

"Perhaps  she  will  not  come  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Atkins,  with  a 
gloomy  look ;  "  she  has  written  us  but  few  letters,  and  they  have 
been  very  short  and  unsatisfactory.  I  suppose  she  has  sense 
enough  to  know  that  no  news  is  better  than  bad  news ;  and  having 
nothing  pleasant  to  tell  about  herself,  she  thinks  she  will  tell  us 
nothing  at  all.  But  if  I  ever  get  her  home  again,  I  will  keep  her 
here.  I  assure  you  her  first  year  in  Lowell  shall  also  be  her  last." 

"  Husband,  I  told  you  my  fears,  and  if  you  had  set  up  your 
authority,  Abby  would  have  been  obliged  to  stay  at  home ;  but 
perhaps  she  is  doing  pretty  well.  You  know  she  is  not  accustomed 
to  writing,  and  that  may  account  for  the  few  and  short  letters  we 
have  received  ;  but  they  have  all,  even  the  shortest,  contained  the 
assurance  that  she  would  be  at  home  at  the  close  of  the  year." 

"Pa,  the  stage  has  stopped  here,"  said  little  Charley,  and  he 
bounded  from  his  father's  knee.  The  next  moment  the  room  rang 
with  the  shout  of  "  Abby  has  come  !  Abby  has  come  !" 

In  a  few  moments  more  she  was  in  the  midst  of  the  joyful 
throng.  Her  father  pressed  her  hand  in  silence,  and  tears  gushed 
from  her  mother's  eyes.  Her  brothers  and  sisters  were  clamorous 
with  delight,  all  but  little  Charley,  to  whom  Abby  was  a  stranger, 
and  who  repelled  with  terror  all  her  overtures  for  a  better  acquaint 
ance.  Her  parents  gazed  upon  her  with  speechless  pleasure,  for 
they  felt  that  a  change  for  the  better  had  taken  place  in  their  once 
wayward  girl.  Yes,  there  she  stood  before  them,  a  little  taller  and 
a  little  thinner,  and,  when  the  flush  of  emotion  had  faded  away, 
perhaps  a  little  paler ;  but  the  eyes  were  bright  in  their  joyous 
radiance,  and  the  smile  of  health  and  innocence  was  playing  around 
the  rosy  lips.  She  carefully  laid  aside  her  new  straw-bonnet,  with 
its  plain  trimming  of  light-blue  ribbon,  and  her  dark  merino  dress 
showed  to  the  best  advantage  her  neat  symmetrical  form.  There 


224  HARRIET   FARLEY. 

was  more  delicacy  of  personal  appearance  than  when  she  left  them, 
and  also  more  softness  of  manner ;  for  constant  collision  with  so 
many  young  females  had  worn  off  the  little  asperities  which  had 
marked  her  conduct  while  at  home. 

"Well,  Abby,  how  many  silk  gowns  have  you  got?"  said  her 
father,  as  she  opened  a  large  neAV  trunk. 

"Not  one,  father,"  said  she,  and  she  fixed  her  dark  eyes  upon 
him  with  an  expression  which  told  all.  "  But  here  are  some  little 
books  for  the  children,  and  a  new  calico  dress  for  mother;  and 
here  is  a  nice  black  silk  handkerchief  for  you  to  wear  around  your 
neck  on  Sundays.  Accept  it,  dear  father,  it  is  your  daughter's 
first  gift." 

"  You  had  better  have  bought  me  a  pair  of  spectacles,  for  I  am 
sure  I  cannot  see  anything."  There  were  tears  in  the  rough 
farmer's  eyes,  but  he  tried  to  laugh  and  joke,  that  they  might  not 
be  perceived.  "But  what  did  you  do  with  all  your  money?" 

"I  thought  I  had  better  leave  it  there,"  said  Abby,  and  she 
placed  her  bank-book  in  her  father's  hand.  Mr.  Atkins  looked  a 
moment,  and  the  forced  smile  faded  away.  The  surprise  had  been 
too  great,  and  tears  fell  thick  and  fast  from  the  father's  eyes. 

"It  is  but  a  little,"  said  Abby. 

"  But  it  was  all  you  could  save,"  replied  her  father,  "  and  I  am 
proud  of  you,  Abby;  yes,  proud  that  I  am  the  father  of  such  a  girl. 
It  is  not  this  paltry  sum  which  pleases  me  so  much,  but  the  prudence, 
self-command,  and  real  affection  for  us  which  you  have  displayed. 
But  was  it  not  sometimes  hard  to  resist  temptation  ?" 

"  Yes,  father,  you  can  never  know  how  hard ;  but  it  was  the 
thought  of  this  night  which  sustained  me  through  it  all.  I  knew 
how  you  would  smile,  and  what  my  mother  would  say  and  feel ; 
and  though  there  have  been  moments,  yes,  hours,  that  have  seen 
me  wretched  enough,  yet  this  one  evening  will  repay  for  all.  There 
is  but  one  thing  now  to  mar  my  happiness,  and  that  is  the  thought 
that  this  little  fellow  has  quite  forgotten  me,"  and  she  drew  Charley 
to  her  side.  But  the  new  picture-book  had  already  effected  wonders, 
and  in  a  few  moments  he  was  in  her  lap,  with  his  arms  around  her 


HARRIET   FARLEY.  225 

neck,  and  his  mother  could  not  persuade  him  to  retire  that  night 
until  he  had  given  "  Sister  Abby"  a  hundred  kisses. 

"Father,"  said  Abby,  as  she  arose  to  retire  when  the  tall  clock 
struck  eleven,  "  may  I  not  some  time  go  back  to  Lowell  ?  I  should 
like  to  add  a  little  to  the  sum  in  the  bank,  and  I  should  be  glad  of 
one  silk  gown." 

"Yes,  Abby,  you  may  do  anything  you  wish.  I  shall  never 
again  be  afraid  to  let  you  spend  a  year  in  Lowell.  You  have 
shown  yourself  to  be  possessed  of  a  virtue,  without  which  no  one 
can  expect  to  gain  either  respect  or  confidence — SELF-DENIAL." 


MARY  H.  EASTMAN. 


MARY  HENDERSON,  now  Mrs.  Mary  H.  Eastman,  was  born  in  War- 
renton,  Fauquier  county,  Virginia.  Her  father  is  Dr.  Thomas  Hender 
son,  of  the  U.  S.  Army;  her  mother  is  a  daughter  of  the  well  known 
naval  commander,  Commodore  Truxtun.  Her  parents  left  Warrenton 
while  she  was  still  young,  and  removed  to  the  city  of  Washington,  where 
she  lived  till  the  time  of  her  marriage,  which  took  place  at  West  Point, 
in  1835.  Her  husband,  Captain  S.  Eastman,  of  the  U.  S.  Army,  is  a 
graduate  of  the  West  Point  Academy,  and  since  his  graduation,  which 
was  in  1829,  has  spent  most  of  his  time  in  frontier  stations,  chiefly  at 
Fort  Snelling,  where  he  was  for  a  period  of  nine  years.  Mrs.  Eastman 
was  with  him  the  greater  part  of  this  time.  While  there  she  had  more 
favourable  opportunities,  probably,  for  studying  the  Indian  character  and 
customs  than  were  ever  possessed  by  any  lady  before.  Having  enjoyed 
while  young  the  advantages  of  an  excellent  education,  and  possessing  much 
natural  shrewdness  of  observation,  she  employed  herself  in  gathering  up 
curious  Indian  lore,  which,  since  her  return  to  the  abodes  of  civilization, 
she  has  communicated  to  the  public  in  two  very  interesting  publications. 
The  first  of  these  was  published  in  1849,  and  entitled  "  Dahcotah,  or  Legends 
of  the  Sioux."  The  second  series  of  papers  was  published  in  1851,  of 
the  same  character  as  "  Dahcotah."  These  all  consist  of  stories,  sketches, 
poems,  &c.,  relating  to  the  Sioux  and  Chippeway  Indians,  whom  she  saw 
at  and  near  Fort  Snelling.  Of  all  the  portraitures  of  Indian  life  and 
character  that  have  been  given  to  the  public,  none,  probably,  have  come 
more  nearly  to  the  truth  than  those  by  Mrs.  Eastman.  Her  book  is  one 
of  the  very  best  contributions  to  our  native  literature  that  has  lately 
appeared. 

(226) 


MARY  H.  EASTMAN.  227 

SHAH-CO-PEE; 

THE   ORATOR   OF   THE    SIOUX. 

SHAH-CO-PEE  (or  Six)  is  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  Dahcotahs ;  his 
village  is  about  twenty-five  miles  from  Fort  Snelling.  He  belongs 
to  the  bands  that  are  called  Men-da-wa-can-ton,  or  People  of  the 
Spirit  Lakes. 

No  one  who  has  lived  at  Fort  Snelling  can  ever  forget  him,  for 
at  what  house  has  he  not  called  to  shake  hands  and  smoke,  to  say 
that  he  is  a  great  chief,  and  that  he  is  hungry  and  must  eat  before 
he  starts  for  home  ?  If  the  hint  is  not  immediately  acted  upon,  he 
adds  that  the  sun  is  dying  fast,  and  it  is  time  for  him  to  set  out. 

Shah-co-pee  is  not  so  tall  or  fine  looking  as  Bad  Hail,  nor  has 
he  the  fine  Roman  features  of  old  Man  in  the  Cloud.  His  face  is 
decidedly  ugly ;  but  there  is  an  expression  of  intelligence  about  his 
quick  black  eye  and  fine  forehead,  that  makes  him  friends,  notwith 
standing  his  many  troublesome  qualities. 

At  present  he  is  in  mourning ;  his  face  is  painted  black.  He 
never  combs  his  hair,  but  wears  a  black  silk  handkerchief  tied 
across  his  forehead. 

When  he  speaks  he  uses  a  great  deal  of  gesture,  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word.  His  hands,  which  are  small  and  well  formed, 
are  black  with  dirt;  he  does  not  descend  to  the  duties  of  the 
toilet. 

He  is  the  orator  of  the  Dahcotahs.  No  matter  how  trifling  the 
occasion,  he  talks  well;  and  assumes  an  air  of  importance  that 
would  become  him  if  he  were  discoursing  on  matters  of  life  and 
death. 

Some  years  ago,  our  government  wished  the  Chippeways  and 
Dahcotahs  to  conclude  a  treaty  of  peace  among  themselves.  Fre 
quently  have  these  two  bands  made  peace,  but  rarely  kept  it  any 
length  of  time.  On  this  occasion  many  promises  were  made  on 


228  MARY  H.   EASTMAN. 

both  sides ;  promises  which  would  be  broken  by  some  inconsiderate 
young  warrior  before  long,  and  then  retaliation  must  follow. 

Shah-co-pee  has  great  influence  among  the  Dahcotahs,  and  he 
was  to  come  to  Fort  Snelling  to  be  present  at  the  council  of  peace. 
Early  in  the  morning  he  and  about  twenty  warriors  left  their  vil 
lage  on  the  banks  of  the  St.  Peter's,  for  the  Fort. 

When  they  were  very  near,  so  that  their  actions  could  be  dis 
tinguished,  they  assembled  in  their  canoes,  drawing  them  close 
together,  that  they  might  hear  the  speech  which  their  chief  was 
about  to  make  to  them. 

They  raised  the  stars  and  stripes,  and  their  own  flag,  which  is  a 
staff"  adorned  with  feathers  from  the  war  eagle ;  and  the  noon-day 
sun  gave  brilliancy  to  their  gay  dresses,  and  the  feathers  and  orna 
ments  that  they  wore. 

Shah-co-pee  stood  straight  and  firm  in  his  canoe — and  not  the 
less  proudly  that  the  walls  of  the  Fort  towered  above  him. 

"  My  boys,"  he  said  (for  thus  he  always  addressed  his  men)  "  the 
Dahcotahs  are  all  braves ;  never  has  a  coward  been  known  among 
the  People  of  the  Spirit  Lakes.  Let  the  women  and  children  fear 
their  enemies,  but  we  will  face  our  foes,  and  always  conquer. 

"  We  are  going  to  talk  with  the  white  men ;  our  great  Father 
wishes  us  to  be  at  peace  with  our  enemies.  We  have  long  enough 
shed  the  blood  of  the  Chippeways ;  we  have  danced  round  their 
scalps,  and  our  children  have  kicked  their  heads  about  in  the  dust. 
What  more  do  we  want  ?  When  we  are  in  council,  listen  to  the 
words  of  the  Interpreter  as  he  tells  us  what  our  great  Father  says, 
and  I  will  answer  him  for  you ;  and  when  we  have  eaten,  and 
smoked  the  pipe  of  peace,  we  will  return  to  our  village." 

The  chief  took  his  seat  with  all  the  importance  of  a  public  bene 
factor.  He  intended  to  have  all  the  talking  to  himself,  to  arrange 
matters  according  to  his  own  ideas  ;  but  he  did  it  with  the  utmost 
condescension,  and  his  warriors  were  satisfied. 

Besides  being  an  orator,  Shah-co-pee  is  a  beggar,  and  one  of  a 
high  order  too,  for  he  will  neither  take  offence  nor  refusal.  Tell 
him  one  day  that  you  will  not  give  him  pork  and  flour,  and  on  the 
next  he  returns,  nothing  daunted,  shaking  hands,  and  asking  for 


MARY   H.    EASTMAN.  229 

pork  and  flour.  He  always  gains  his  point,  for  you  are  obliged  to 
give  in  order  to  get  rid  of  him.  He  will  take  up  his  quarters  at 
the  Interpreter's,  and  come  down  upon  you  every  day  for  a  week 
just  at  meal  time — and  as  he  is  always  blessed  with  a  ferocious 
appetite,  it  is  much  better  to  capitulate,  come  to  terms  by  giving 
him  what  he  wants,  and  let  him  go.  And  after  he  has  once  started, 
ten  to  one  if  he  does  not  come  back  to  say  he  wants  to  shoot  and 
bring  you  some  ducks ;  you  must  give  him  powder  and  shot  to 
enable  him  to  do  so.  That  will  probably  be  the  last  of  it. 


It  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  June  when  we  left  Fort  Snelling 
to  go  on  a  pleasure  party  up  the  St.  Peter's,  in  a  steamboat,  the 
first  that  had  ever  ascended  that  river.  There  were  many  draw 
backs  in  the  commencement,  as  there  always  are  on  such  occasions. 
The  morning  was  rather  cool,  thought  some,  and  as  they  hesitated 
about  going,  of  course  their  toilets  were  delayed  till  the  last 
moment.  And  when  all  were  fairly  in  the  boat,  wood  was  yet 
to  be  found.  Then  something  was  the  matter  with  one  of  the 
wheels — and  the  mothers  were  almost  sorry  they  had  consented  to 
come  ;  while  the  children,  frantic  with  joy,  were  in  danger  of 
being  drowned  every  moment,  by  the  energetic  movements  they 
made  near  the  sides  of  the  boat,  by  way  of  indicating  their  satis 
faction  at  the  state  of  things. 

In  the  cabin,  extensive  preparations  were  making  in  case  the 
excursion  brought  on  a  good  appetite.  Everybody  contributed 
loaf  upon  loaf  of  bread  and  cake;  pies,  coffee,  and  sugar;  cold 
meats  of  every  description ;  with  milk  and  cream  in  bottles.  Now 
and  then,  one  of  these  was  broken  or  upset,  by  way  of  adding  to 
the  confusion,  which  was  already  intolerable. 

Champagne  and  old  Cogniac  were  brought  by  the  young  gentle 
men,  only  for  fear  the  ladies  should  be  sea-sick ;  or,  perhaps,  in 
case  the  gentlemen  should  think  it  positively  necessary  to  drink 
the  ladies'  health. 

When  we  thought  all  was  ready,  there  was  still  another  delay. 


230  MARY   H.    EASTMAN. 

Shah-co-pee  and  two  of  his  warriors  were  seen  coming  down  the 
hill,  the  chief  making  an  animated  appeal  to  some  one  on  board 
the  boat ;  and  as  he  reached  the  shore  he  gave  us  to  understand 
that  his  business  was  concluded,  and  that  he  would  like  to  go  with 
us.  But  it  was  very  evident  that  he  considered  his  company  a 
favour. 

The  bright  sun  brought  warmth,  and  we  sat  on  the  upper  deck 
admiring  the  beautiful  shores  of  the  St.  Peter's.  Not  a  creature 
was  to  be  seen  for  some  distance  on  the  banks,  and  the  birds  as 
they  flew  over  our  heads  seemed  to  be  the  fit  and  only  inhabitants 
of  such  a  region. 

When  tired  of  admiring  the  scenery,  there  was  enough  to  employ 
us.  The  table  was  to  be  set  for  dinner ;  the  children  had  already 
found  out  which  basket  contained  the  cake,  and  they  were  casting 
admiring  looks  towards  it. 

When  we  were  all  assembled  to  partake  of  some  refreshments, 
it  was  delightful  to  find  that  there  were  not  enough  chairs  for  half 
the  party.  We  borrowed  each  others'  knives  and  forks,  too,  and 
etiquette,  that  petty  tyrant  of  society,  retired  from  the  scene. 

Shah-co-pee  found  his  way  to  the  cabin,  where  he  manifested 
strong  symptoms  of  shaking  hands  over  again ;  in  order  to  keep 
him  quiet,  we  gave  him  plenty  to  eat.  How  he  seemed  to  enjoy  a 
piece  of  cake  that  had  accidentally  dropped  into  the  oyster-soup ! 
and  with  equal  gravity  would  he  eat  apple-pie  and  ham  together. 
And  then  his  cry  of  "wakun"*  when  the  cork  flew  from  the  cham 
pagne  bottle  across  the  table  ! 

How  happily  the  day  passed — how  few  such  days  occur  in  the 
longest  life ! 

As  Shah-co-pee's  village  appeared  in  sight,  the  chief  addressed 

Colonel  D ,  who  was  at  that  time  in  command  of  Fort  Snel- 

ling,  asking  him  why  we  had  come  on  such  an  excursion. 

"  To  escort  you  home,"  was  the  ready  reply ;  "you  are  a  great 
chief,  and  worthy  of  being  honoured,  and  we  have  chosen  this  as 
the  best  way  of  showing  our  respect  and  admiration  of  you." 

The   Dahcotah   chief   believed   all;    he   never   for   a   moment 

*  Mysterious. 


MARY   H.  EASTMAN.  231 

thought  there  was  anything  like  jesting  on  the  subject  of  his 
own  high  merits ;  his  face  beamed  with  delight  on  receiving  such 
a  compliment. 

The  men  and  women  of  the  village  crowded  on  the  shore  as 
the  boat  landed,  as  well  they  might,  for  a  steamboat  was  a  new 
sight  to  them. 

The  chief  sprang  from  the  boat,  and  swelling  with  pride  and 
self-admiration  he  took  the  most  conspicuous  station  on  a  rock 
near  the  shore,  among  his  people,  and  made  them  a  speech. 

We  could  but  admire  his  native  eloquence.  Here,  with  all  that 
is  wild  in  nature  surrounding  him,  did  the  untaught  orator  address 
his  people.  His  lips  gave  rapid  utterance  to  thoughts  which  did 
honour  to  his  feelings,  when  we  consider  who  and  what  he  was. 

He  told  them  that  the  white  people  were  their  friends;  that 
they  wished  them  to  give  up  murder  and  intemperance,  and  to  live 
quietly  and  happily.  They  taught  them  to  plant  corn,  and  they 
were  anxious  to  instruct  their  children.  "  When  we  are  suffering," 
said  he,  "  during  the  cold  weather,  from  sickness  or  want  of  food, 
they  give  us  medicine  and  bread." 

And  finally  he  told  them  of  the  honour  that  had  been  paid  him. 
"  I  went,  as  you  know,  to  talk  with  the  big  Captain  of  the  Fort, 
and  he,  knowing  the  bravery  of  the  Dahcotahs,  and  that  I  was  a 
great  chief,  has  brought  me  home,  as  you  see.  Never  has  a  Dah- 
cotah  warrior  been  thus  honoured  !" 

Never,  indeed  !  But  we  took  care  not  to  undeceive  him.  It  was 
a  harmless  error,  and  as  no  efforts  on  our  part  could  have  diminished 
his  self-importance,  we  listened  with  apparent,  indeed  with  real  admi 
ration  of  his  eloquent  speech.  The  women  brought  ducks  on  board, 
and  in  exchange  we  gave  them  bread ;  and  it  was  evening  as  we 
watched  the  last  teepee  of  Shah-co-pee's  village  fade  away  in  the 
distance. 


Shah-co-pee  has  looked  rather  grave  lately.     There  is  trouble 
in  the  wigwam. 

The  old  chief  is  the  husband  of  three  wives,  and  they  and  their 


232  MARY   H.  EASTMAN. 

children  are  always  fighting.  The  first  wife  is  old  as  the  hills, 
wrinkled  and  haggard ;  the  chief  cares  no  more  for  her  than  he 
does  for  the  stick  of  wood  she  is  chopping.  She  quarrels  with 
everybody  but  him,  and  this  prevents  her  from  being  quite 
forgotten. 

The  day  of  the  second  wife  is  past  too,  it  is  of  no  use  for  her 
to  plait  her  hair  and  put  on  her  ornaments ;  for  the  old  chief 's 
heart  is  wrapped  up  in  his  third  wife. 

The  girl  did  not  love  him,  how  could  she  ?  and  he  did  not  suc 
ceed  in  talking  her  into  the  match ;  but  he  induced  the  parents  to 
sell  her  to  him,  and  the  young  wife  went  weeping  to  the  teepee  of 
the  chief. 

Hers  was  a  sad  fate.  She  hated  her  husband  as  much  as  he 
loved  her.  No  presents  could  reconcile  her  to  her  situation.  The 
two  forsaken  wives  never  ceased  annoying  her,  and  their  children 
assisted  them.  The  young  wife  had  not  the  courage  to  resent 
their  ill  treatment,  for  the  loss  of  her  lover  had  broken  her  heart. 
But  that  lover  did  not  seem  to  be  in  such  despair  as  she  was — he 
did  not  quit  the  village,  or  drown  himself,  or  commit  any  act  of 
desperation.  He  lounged  and  smoked  as  much  as  ever.  On  one 
occasion,  when  Shah-co-pee  was  absent  from  the  village,  the  lovers 
met. 

They  had  to  look  well  around  them,  for  the  two  old  wives  were 
always  on  the  lookout  for  something  to  tell  of  the  young  one ;  but 
there  was  no  one  near.  The  wind  whistled  keenly  round  the  bend 
of  the  river  as  the  Dahcotah  told  the  weeping  girl  to  listen  to  him. 

When  had  she  refused  ?  How  had  she  longed  to  hear  the  sound 
of  his  voice  when  wearied  to  death  with  the  long  boastings  of  the 
old  chief! 

But  how  did  her  heart  beat  when  Red  Stone  told  her  that  he 
loved  her  still — that  he  had  only  been  waiting  an  opportunity  to 
induce  her  to  leave  her  old  husband,  and  go  with  him  far  away ! 

She  hesitated  a  little,  but  not  long;  and  when  Shah-co-pee 
returned  to  his  teepee  his  young  wife  was  gone — no  one  had  seen 
her  depart — no  one  knew  where  to  seek  for  her.  When  the  old 
man  heard  that  Red  Stone  was  gone  too,  his  rage  knew  no  bounds. 


MARY    H.    EASTMAN.  233 

He  beat  his  two  wives  almost  to  death,  and  would  have  given  his 
handsomest  pipe-stem  to  have  seen  the  faithless  one  again. 

His  passion  did  not  last  long ;  it  would  have  killed  him  if  it  had. 
His  wives  moaned  all  through  the  night,  bruised  and  bleeding,  for 
the  fault  of  their  rival ;  while  the  chief  had  recourse  to  the  pipe, 
the  never-failing  refuge  of  the  Dahcotah. 

"I  thought,"  said  the  chief,  "that  some  calamity  was  going  to 
happen  to  me"  (for,  being  more  composed,  he  began  to  talk  to  the 
other  Indians  who  sat  with  him  in  his  teepee,  somewhat  after  the 
manner  and  in  the  spirit  of  Job's  friends).  "  I  saw  Unk-a-tahe, 
the  great  fish  of  the  water,  and  it  showed  its  horns ;  and  we  know 
that  that  is  always  a  sign  of  trouble." 

"Ho  !"  replied  an  old  medicine  man,  "  I  remember  when  Unk- 
a-tahe  got  in  under  the  falls"  (of  St.  Anthony)  "and  broke  up  the 
ice.  The  large  pieces  of  ice  went  swiftly  down,  and  the  water 
forced  its  way  until  it  was  frightful  to  see  it.  The  trees  near  the 
shore  were  thrown  down,  and  the  small  islands  were  left  bare. 
Near  Fort  Snelling  there  was  a  house  where  a  white  man  and  h.is 
wife  lived.  The  woman  heard  the  noise,  and,  waking  her  husband, 
ran  out ;  but  as  he  did  not  follow  her  quick  enough,  the  house  was 
soon  afloat  and  he  was  drowned." 

There  was  an  Indian  camp  near  this  house,  for  the  body  of 
Wenona,  the  sick  girl  who  was  carried  over  the  Falls,  was  found 
here.  It  was  placed  on  a  scaffold  on  the  shore,  near  where  the 
Indians  found  her,  and  Checkered  Cloud  moved  her  teepee,  to  be 
near  her  daughter.  Several  other  Dahcotah  families  were  also 
near  her. 

But  what  was  their  fright  when  they  heard  the  ice  breaking,  and 
the  waters  roaring  as  they  carried  everything  before  them  ?  The 
father  of  Wenona  clung  to  his  daughter's  scaffold,  and  no  entreaties 
of  his  wife  or  others  could  induce  him  to  leave. 

"Unk-a-tahe  has  done  this,"  cried  the  old  man,  "and  I  care 
not.  He  carried  my  sick  daughter  under  the  waters,  and  he  may 
bury  me  there  too."  And  while  the  others  fled  from  the  power  of 
Unk-a-tahe,  the  father  and  mother  clung  to  the  scaffold  of  their 
daughter, 
so 


234  MARY    H.   EASTMAN. 

They  were  saved,  and  they  lived  by  the  body  of  Wenona  until 
they  buried  her.  The  power  of  Unk-a-tahe  is  great !"  So  spoke 
the  medicine-man,  and  Shah-co-pee  almost  forgot  his  loss  in  the 
fear  and  admiration  of  this  monster  of  the  deep,  this  terror  of  the 
Dahcotahs. 

He  will  do  well  to  forget  the  young  wife  altogether ;  for  she  is 
far  away,  making  mocassins  for  the  man  she  loves.  She  rejoices 
at  her  escape  from  the  old  man,  and  his  two  wives ;  while  he  is 
always  making  speeches  to  his  men,  commencing  by  saying  he  is  a 
great  chief,  and  ending  with  the  assertion  that  Red  Stone  should 
have  respected  his  old  age,  and  not  have  stolen  from  him  the  only 
wife  he  loved. 


Shah-co-pee  came,  a  few  days  ago,  with  twenty  other  warriors, 
some  of  them  chiefs,  on  a  visit  to  the  commanding  officer  of  Fort 
Snelling. 

The  Dahcotahs  had  heard  that  the  Winnebagoes  were  about  to 
be  removed,  and  that  they  were  to  pass  through  their  hunting- 
grounds  on  their  way  to  their  future  homes.  They  did  not  approve 
of  this  arrangement.  Last  summer  the  Dahcotahs  took  some  scalps 
of  the  Winnebagoes,  and  it  was  decided  at  Washington  that  the 
Dahcotahs  should  pay  four  thousand  dollars  of  their  annuities  as 
an  atonement  for  the  act.  This  caused  much  suffering  among  the 
Dahcotahs ;  fever  was  making  great  havoc  among  them,  and  to 
deprive  them  of  their  flour  and  other  articles  of  food  was  only 
enfeebling  their  constitutions,  and  rendering  them  an  easy  prey 
for  disease.  The  Dahcotahs  thought  this  very  hard  at  the  time ; 
they  have  not  forgotten  the  circumstance,  and  they  think  that  they 
ought  to  be  consulted  before  their  lands  are  made  a  thoroughfare 
by  their  enemies. 

They  accordingly  assembled,  and,  accompanied  by  the  Indian 
agent  and  the  interpreter,  came  to  Fort  Snelling  to  make  their 
complaint.  When  they  were  all  seated  (all  on  the  floor  but  one, 
who  looked  most  uncomfortable,  mounted  on  a  high  chair),  the 
agent  introduced  the  subject,  and  it  was  discussed  for  a  while ;  the 


MAEY  H.   EASTMAN.  235 

Dahcotahs  paying  the  most  profound  attention,  although  they 
could  not  understand  a  word  of  what  was  passing;  and  when 
there  was  a  few  moments'  silence,  the  chiefs  rose  each  in  his  turn 
to  protest  against  the  Winnebagoes  passing  through  their  country. 
They  all  spoke  sensibly  and  well;  and  when  one  finished,  the 
others  all  intimated  their  approval  by  crying  "  Ho !"  as  a  kind 
of  chorus.  After  a  while  Shah-co-pee  rose ;  his  manner  said  "  I 
am  Sir  Oracle."  He  shook  hands  with  the  commanding  officer, 
with  the  agent  and  interpreter,  and  then  with  some  strangers  who 
were  visiting  the  fort. 

His  attitude  was  perfectly  erect  as  he  addressed  the  officer. 

"  We  are  the  children  of  our  great  Father,  the  President  of  the 
United  States ;  look  upon  us,  for  we  are  your  children  too.  You 
are  placed  here  to  see  that  the  Dahcotahs  are  protected,  that  their 
rights  are  not  infringed  upon." 

While  the  Indians  cried  "  Ho  !  ho  !"  with  great  emphasis,  Shah- 
co-pee  shook  hands  all  round  again,  and  then  resumed  his  place 
and  speech. 

"  Once  this  country  all  belonged  to  the  Dahcotahs.  Where 
had  the  white  man  a  place  to  call  his  own  on  our  prairies  ?  He 
could  not  even  pass  through  our  country  without  our  permission ! 

"  Our  great  Father  has  signified  to  us  that  he  wants  our  lands. 
We  have  sold  some  of  them  to  him,  and  we  are  content  to  do  so, 
but  he  has  promised  to  protect  us,  to  be  a  friend  to  us,  to  take  care 
of  us  as  a  father  does  of  his  children. 

"  When  the  white  man  wishes  to  visit  us,  we  open  the  door  of 
our  country  to  him  ;  we  treat  him  with  hospitality.  He  looks  at 
our  rocks,  our  river,  our  trees,  and  we  do  not  disturb  him.  The 
Dahcotah  and  the  white  man  are  friends. 

"  But  the  Winnebagoes  are  not  our  friends,  we  suffered  for  them 
not  long  ago;  our  children  wanted  food;  our  wives  were  sick; 
they  could  not  plant  corn  or  gather  the  Indian  potato.  Many  of 
our  nation  died ;  their  bodies  are  now  resting  on  their  scaffolds. 
The  night  birds  clap  their  wings  as  the  winds  howl  over  them ! 

"And  we  are  told  that  our  great  Father  will  let  the  Winneba- 


236  MARY  H.   EASTMAN. 

goes  make  a  path  through  our  hunting-grounds :  they  will  subsist 
upon  our  game ;  every  bird  or  animal  they  kill  will  be  a  loss  to  us. 

"  The  Dahcotah's  lands  are  not  free  to  others.  If  our  great 
Father  wishes  to  make  any  use  of  our  lands,  he  should  pay  us. 
We  object  to  the  Winnebagoes  passing  through  our  country ;  but 
if  it  is  too  late  to  prevent  this,  then  we  demand  a  thousand  dollars 
for  every  village  they  shall  pass." 

"  Ho  !"  cried  the  Indians  again ;  and  Shah-co-pee,  after  shaking 
hands  once  more,  took  his  seat. 

I  doubt  if  you  will  ever  get  the  thousand  dollars  a  village,  Shah- 
co-pee  ;  but  I  like  the  spirit  that  induces  you  to  demand  it.  May 
you  live  long  to  make  speeches  and  beg  bread — the  unrivalled 
orator  and  most  notorious  beggar  of  the  Dahcotahs  ! 


'MARCHIONESS  UaSSHL 


S.   MARGARET  FULLER, 

(MARCHIONESS   OF   OSSOLI.) 

SARAH  MARGARET  FULLER  was  born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts, 
May  23,  1810.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the  Hon.  Timothy  Fuller,  a 
lawyer  of  Boston,  but  nearly  all  his  life  a  resident  of  Cambridge,  and  a 
Representative  of  the  Middlesex  District  in  Congress  from  1817  to  1825. 
Mr.  Fuller,  upon  his  retirement  from  Congress,  purchased  a  farm  at  some 
distance  from  Boston,  and  abandoned  law  for  agriculture,  soon  after 
which  he  died.  His  widow  and  six  children  still  survive. 

Margaret  was  the  first-born,  and  from  a  very  early  age  evinced  the 
possession  of  remarkable  intellectual  powers.  Her  father  regarded  her 
with  a  proud  admiration,  and  was  from  childhood  her  chief  instructor, 
guide,  companion,  and  friend.  At  eight  years  of  age  he  was  accustomed 
to  require  of  her  the  composition  of  a  number  of  Latin  verses  per  day, 
while  her  studies  in  philosophy,  history,  general  science,  and  current 
literature  were  in  after  years  extensive  and  profound.  After  her  father's 
death,  she  applied  herself  to  teaching  as  a  vocation,  first  in  Boston,  then 
in  Providence,  and  afterwards  in  Boston  again,  where  her  "  Conversa 
tions"  were  for  several  seasons  attended  by  classes  of  women,  some  of 
them  married,  and  including  many  from  the  best  families  of  that  city. 

In  the  autumn  of  1844,  she  accepted  an  invitation  to  take  part  in  the 
conduct  of  "  The  Tribune,"  with  especial  reference  to  the  department  of 
Reviews  and  Criticisms  on  current  Literature  and  Art,  a  position  which 
she  filled  with  eminent  ability  for  nearly  two  years.  Her  reviews  of 
Longfellow's  Poems,  Wesley's  Memoirs,  Poe's  Poems,  Bailey's  "  Festus," 
Douglas's  Life,  &c.,  may  be  mentioned  with  special  emphasis.  She  had 
previously  found  "  fit  audience,  though  few,"  for  a  series  of  remarkable 
papers  on  "The  Great  Musicians/'  "Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury," 
"Woman,"  &c.,  in  "The  Dial,"  of  which  she  was  at  first  co-editor 

(237) 


238  S.   MARGARET   FULLER. 

with  Ralph  "Waldo  Emerson,  but  which  was  afterwards  edited  by  him 
only,  though  she  continued  a  contributor  to  its  pages.  In  1843,  she 
accompanied  some  friends  on  a  tour  by  Niagara,  Detroit,  and  Mackinac 
to  Chicago,  and  across  the  Prairies  of  Illinois,  and  her  resulting  volume, 
entitled  "  Summer  on  the  Lakes,"  is  considered  one  of  the  best  works  in 
its  department  ever  issued  from  the  American  press.  Her  "  "Woman  in 
the  Nineteenth  Century" — an  extension  of  her  essay  in  "  The  Dial" — was 
published  early  in  1845,  and  a  moderate  edition  sold.  The  next  year  a 
selection  from  her  "  Papers  on  Literature  and  Art"  was  issued  by  Wiley 
&  Putnam,  in  two  fair  volumes  of  their  "  Library  of  American  Books." 
These  "  Papers"  embody  some  of  her  best  contributions  to  "  The  Dial," 
"The  Tribune,"  and  perhaps  one  or  two  which  had  not  appeared  in 
either. 

In  the  summer  of  1845,  Miss  Fuller  accompanied  the  family  of  a 
devoted  friend  to  Europe,  visiting  England,  Scotland,  France,  and  pass 
ing  through  Italy  to  Rome,  where  they  spent  the  ensuing  winter.  She 
accompanied  her  friends  next  spring  to  the  north  of  Italy,  and  there 
stopped,  spending  most  of  the  summer  at  Florence,  and  returning  at  the 
approach  of  winter  to  Rome,  where  she  was  soon  after  married  to  Gio 
vanni,  Marquis  d'Ossoli,  who  had  made  her  acquaintance  during  her  first 
winter  in  the  Eternal  City.  They  afterwards  resided  in  the  Roman 
States  until  the  summer  of  1850,  after  the  surrender  of  Rome  to  the 
French  army  of  assassins  of  liberty,  when  they  deemed  it  expedient  to 
migrate  to  Florence,  both  having  taken  an  active  part  in  the  Republican 
movement.  Thence  in  June  they  departed  and  set  sail  at  Leghorn  for 
New  York,  in  the  Philadelphia  brig  Elizabeth,  which  was  doomed  to 
encounter  a  succession  of  disasters.  They  had  not  been  many  days  at 
sea  when  the  captain  was  prostrated  by  a  disease  which  ultimately  exhibited 
itself  as  confluent  small-pox  of  the  most  malignant  type,  and  terminated 
his  life  soon  after  the}''  touched  at  Gibraltar,  after  a  sickness  of  intense 
agony  and  loathsome  horror.  The  vessel  was  detained  some  days  in 
quarantine  by  reason  of  this  affliction,  but  finally  set  sail  again  just  in 
season  to  bring  her  on  our  coast  on  the  fearful  night  between  the  18th 
and  19th  of  July,  1850,  when  darkness,  rain,  and  a  terrific  gale  from  the 
south-west  conspired  to  hurl  her  into  the  very  jaws  of  destruction.  She 
struck  during  the  night,  and  before  the  next  evening  was  a  mass  of 
drifting  sticks  and  planks,  while  her  passengers  and  part  of  her  crew 
were  buried  in  the  boiling  surges. 

Among  those  drowned  in  this  fearful  wreck  were  the  Marquis  and 
Marchioness  d'Ossoli,  and  their  only  child. 

Miss  Fuller  was  more  remarkable  for  strength  and  vigour  of  thought, 
and  a  certain  absolute  and  almost  scornful  independence,  than  for  the 
graces  of  style  and  diction.  She  had  the  reputation  of  being  "the  best 
talker  since  Madame  de  Stae'l,"  and  by  those  who  knew  her  most  inti- 


S.    MARGARET    FULLER.  230 

mately  her  conversational  powers  were  considered  more  brilliant  even  than 
her  talents  as  a  writer.  She  was,  without  doubt,  in  both  respects,  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  women  of  the  present  century.  Her  friends,  R.  W. 
Emerson  and  W.  H.  Channing,  are  understood  to  be  engaged  in  preparing 
a  memoir  of  her  life,  which  will  be  looked  for  with  much  interest. 


A  SHORT  ESSAY  ON  CRITICS. 

AN  essay  on  Criticism  were  a  serious  matter ;  for,  though  this 
age  be  emphatically  critical,  the  writer  would  still  find  it  necessary 
to  investigate  the  laws  of  criticism  as  a  science,  to  settle  its  condi 
tions  as  an  art.  Essays,  entitled  critical,  are  epistles  addressed  to 
the  public,  through  which  the  mind  of  the  recluse  relieves  itself  of 
its  impressions.  Of  these  the  only  law  is,  "  Speak  the  best  word 
that  is  in  thee."  Or  they  are  regular  articles  got  up  to  order  by 
the  literary  hack  writer,  for  the  literary  mart,  and  the  only  law  is 
to  make  them  plausible.  There  is  not  yet  deliberate  recognition 
of  a  standard  of  criticism,  though  we  hope  the  always  strength 
ening  league  of  the  republic  of  letters  must  ere  long  settle  laws  on 
which  its  Amphictyonic  council  may  act.  Meanwhile  let  us  not 
venture  to  write  on  criticism,  but,  by  classifying  the  critics,  imply 
our  hopes  and  thereby  our  thoughts. 

First,  there  are  the  subjective  class  (to  make  use  of  a  convenient 
term,  introduced  by  our  German  benefactors).  These  are  persons 
to  whom  writing  is  no  sacred,  no  reverend  employment.  They  are 
not  driven  to  consider,  not  forced  upon  investigation  by  the  fact, 
that  they  are  deliberately  giving  their  thoughts  an  independent 
existence,  and  that  it  may  live  to  others  when  dead  to  them.  They 
know  no  agonies  of  conscientious  research,  no  timidities  of  self- 
respect.  They  see  no  ideal  beyond  the  present  hour,  which  makes 
its  mood  an  uncertain  tenure.  How  things  affect  them  now  they 
know ;  let  the  future,  let  the  whole  take  care  of  itself.  They  state 
their  impressions  as  they  rise,  of  other  men's  spoken,  written,  or 
acted  thoughts.  They  never  dream  of  going  out  of  themselves  to 
seek  the  motive,  to  trace  the  law  of  another  nature.  They  never 
dream  that  there  are  statures  which  cannot  be  measured  from  their 
point  of  view.  They  love,  they  like,  or  they  hate ;  the  book  is 


240  S.    MARGARET   FULLER. 

detestable,  immoral,  absurd,  or  admirable,  noble,  of  a  most  ap 
proved  scope  ; — these  statements  they  make  with  authority,  as  those 
•who  bear  the  evangel  of  pure  taste  and  accurate  judgment,  and 
need  be  tried  before  no  human  synod.  To  them  it  seems  that  their 
present  position  commands  the  universe. 

Thus  the  essays  on  the  works  of  others,  which  are  called  criti 
cisms,  are  often,  in  fact,  mere  records  of  impressions.  To  judge 
of  their  value  you  must  know  where  the  man  was  brought  up, 
under  what  influences, — his  nation,  his  church,  his  family  even. 
He  himself  has  never  attempted  to  estimate  the  value  of  these 
circumstances,  and  find  a  law  or  raise  a  standard  above  all  circum 
stances,  permanent  against  all  influence.  He  is  content  to  be  the 
creature  of  his  place,  and  to  represent  it  by  his  spoken  and  written 
word.  He  takes  the  same  ground  with  a  savage,  who  does  not 
hesitate  to  say  of  the  product  of  a  civilization  on  which  he  could 
not  stand,  "It  is  bad,"  or  "It  is  good." 

The  value  of  such  comments  is  merely  reflex.  They  characterize 
the  critic.  They  give  an  idea  of  certain  influences  on  a  certain 
act  of  men  in  a  certain  time  or  place.  Their  absolute,  essential 
value  is  nothing.  The  long  review,  the  eloquent  article  by  the 
man  of  the  nineteenth  century,  are  of  no  value  by  themselves  con 
sidered,  but  only  as  samples  of  their  kind.  The  writers  were  con 
tent  to  tell  what  they  felt,  to  praise  or  to  denounce  without  needing 
to  convince  us  or  themselves.  They  sought  not  the  divine  truths 
of  philosophy,  and  she  proffers  them  not  if  unsought. 

Then  there  are  the  apprehensive.  These  can  go  out  of  them 
selves  and  enter  fully  into  a  foreign  existence.  They  breathe  its 
life ;  they  live  in  its  law ;  they  tell  what  it  meant,  and  why  it  so 
expressed  its  meaning.  They  reproduce  the  work  of  which  they 
speak,  and  make  it  better  known  to  us  in  so  far  as  two  statements 
are  better  than  one.  There  are  beautiful  specimens  in  this  kind. 
They  are  pleasing  to  us  as  bearing  witness  of  the  genial  sympathies 
of  nature.  They  have  the  ready  grace  of  love  with  somewhat  of 
the  dignity  of  disinterested  friendship.  They  sometimes  give  more 
pleasure  than  the  original  production  of  which  they  treat,  as  melo 
dies  will  sometimes  ring  sweetlier  in  the  echo.  Besides  there  is  a 


S.    MARGARET    FULLER.  241 

peculiar  pleasure  in  a  true  response ;  it  is  the  assurance  of  equipoise 
in  the  universe.  These,  if  not  true  critics,  come  nearer  the  stand 
ard  than  the  subjective  class,  and  the  value  of  their  work  is  ideal 
as  well  as  historical. 

Then  there  are  the  comprehensive,  who  must  also  be  apprehen 
sive.  They  enter  into  the  nature  of  another  being,  and  judge  his 
work  by  its  own  law.  But  having  done  so,  having  ascertained  his 
design  and  the  degree  of  his  success  in  fulfilling  it,  thus  measuring 
his  judgment,  his  energy,  and  skill,  they  do  also  know  how  to  put 
that  aim  in  its  place,  and  how  to  estimate  its  relations.  And  this 
the  critic  can  only  do  who  perceives  the  analogies  of  the  universe, 
and  how  they  are  regulated  by  an  absolute,  invariable  principle. 
He  can  see  how  far  that  work  expresses  this  principle,  as  well  as 
how  far  it  is  excellent  in  its  details.  Sustained  by  a  principle,  such 
as  can  be  girt  within  no  rule,  no  formula,  he  can  walk  around  the 
work,  he  can  stand  above  it,  he  can  uplift  it,  and  try  its  weight. 
Finally,  he  is  worthy  to  judge  it. 

Critics  are  poets  cut  down,  says  some  one  by  way  of  jeer ;  but, 
in  truth,  they  are  men  with  the  poetical  temperament  to  apprehend, 
with  the  philosophical  tendency  to  investigate.  The  maker  is 
divine ;  the  critic  sees  this  divine,  but  brings  it  down  to  humanity 
by  the  analytic  process.  The  critic  is  the  historian  who  records 
the  order  of  creation.  In  vain  for  the  maker,  who  knows  without 
learning  it,  but  not  in  vain  for  the  mind  of  his  race. 

The  critic  is  beneath  the  maker,  but  is  his  needed  friend.  What 
tongue  could  speak  but  to  an  intelligent  ear,  and  every  noble  work 
demands  its  critic.  The  richer  the  work,  the  more  severe  should 
be  its  critic ;  the  larger  its  scope,  the  more  comprehensive  must  be 
his  power  of  scrutiny.  The  critic  is  not  a  base  caviller,  but  the 
younger  brother  of  genius.  Next  to  invention  is  the  power  of 
interpreting  invention ;  next  to  beauty  the  power  of  appreciating 
beauty. 

And  of  making  others  appreciate  it ;  for  the  universe  is  a  scale 
of  infinite  gradation,  and  below  the  very  highest,  every  step  is 
explanation  down  to  the  lowest.  Religion,  in  the  two  modulations 
of  poetry  and  music,  descends  through  an  infinity  of  waves  to  the 

31 


242  S.    MARGARET    FULLER. 

lowest  abysses  of  human  nature.  Nature  is  the  literature  and  art 
of  the  divine  inind ;  human  literature  and  art  the  criticism  on  that ; 
and  they,  too,  find  their  criticism  within  their  own  sphere. 

The  critic,  then,  should  be  not  merely  a  poet,  not  merely  a  philo 
sopher,  not  merely  an  observer,  but  tempered  of  all  three.  If  he 
criticise  the  poem,  he  must  want  nothing  of  what  constitutes  the 
poet,  except  the  power  of  creating  forms  and  speaking  in  music. 
He  must  have  as  good  an  eye  and  as  fine  a  sense ;  but  if  he  had 
as  fine  an  organ  for  expression  also,  he  would  make  the  poem 
instead  of  judging  it.  He  must  be  inspired  by  the  philosopher's 
spirit  of  inquiry  and  need  of  generalization,  but  he  must  not  be 
constrained  by  the  hard  cemented  masonry  of  method  to  which 
philosophers  are  prone.  And  he  must  have  the  organic  acuteness 
of  the  observer,  with  a  love  of  ideal  perfection,  which  forbids  him 
to  be  content  with  mere  beauty  of  details  in  the  work  or  the  com 
ment  upon  the  work. 

There  are  persons  who  maintain,  that  there  is  no  legitimate  criti 
cism,  except  the  reproductive ;  that  we  have  only  to  say  what  the 
work  is  or  is  to  us,  never  what  it  is  not.  But  the  moment  we  look 
for  a  principle,  we  feel  the  need  of  a  criterion,  of  a  standard ;  and 
then  we  say  what  the  work  is  not,  as  well  as  what  it  is  ;  and  this 
is  as  healthy  though  not  as  grateful  and  gracious  an  operation  of 
the  mind  as  the  other.  We  do  not  seek  to  degrade  but  to  classify 
an  object,  by  stating  what  it  is  not.  We  detach  the  part  from  the 
whole,  lest  it  stand  between  us  and  the  whole.  When  we  have 
ascertained  in  what  degree  it  manifests  the  whole,  we  may  safely 
restore  it  to  its  place,  and  love  or  admire  it  there  ever  after. 

The  use  of  criticism,  in  periodical  writing,  is  to  sift,  not  to  stamp 
a  work.  Yet  should  they  not  be  "  sieves  and  drainers  for  the  use 
of  luxurious  readers,"  but  for  the  use  of  earnest  inquirers,  giving 
voice  and  being  to  their  objections,  as  well  as  stimulus  to  their 
sympathies.  But  the  critic  must  not  be  an  infallible  adviser  to  his 
reader.  He  must  not  tell  him  what  books  are  not  worth  reading, 
or  what  must  be  thought  of  them  when  read,  but  what  he  read  in 
them.  Woe  to  that  coterie  where  some  critic  sits  despotic,  en 
trenched  behind  the  infallible  "  We."  Woe  to  that  oracle  who  has 


S.    MARGARET    FULLER.  243 

infused  such  soft  sleepiness,  such  a  gentle  dulness  into  his  atmo 
sphere,  that  -when  he  opes  his  lips  no  dog  will  bark.  It  is  this 
attempt  at  dictatorship  in  the  reviewers,  and  the  indolent  acquies 
cence  of  their  readers,  that  has  brought  them  into  disrepute.  With 
such  fairness  did  they  make  out  their  statements,  with  such  dignity 
did  they  utter  their  verdicts,  that  the  poor  reader  grew  all  too 
submissive.  He  learned  his  lesson  with  such  docility,  that  the 
greater  part  of  what  will  be  said  at  any  public  or  private  meeting 
can  be  foretold  by  any  one  who  has  read  the  leading  periodical 
works  for  twenty  years  back.  Scholars  sneer  at  and  would  fain 
dispense  with  them  altogether ;  and  the  public,  grown  lazy  and 
helpless  by  this  constant  use  of  props  and  stays,  can  now  scarce 
brace  itself  even  to  get  through  a  magazine  article,  but  reads  in 
the  daily  paper  laid  beside  the  breakfast-plate  a  short  notice  of  the 
last  number  of  the  long-established  and  popular  review,  and  there 
upon  passes  its  judgment  and  is  content. 

Then  the  partisan  spirit  of  many  of  these  journals  has  made  it 
unsafe  to  rely  upon  them  as  guide-books  and  expurgatory  indexes. 
They  could  not  be  content  merely  to  stimulate  and  suggest  thought, 
they  have  at  last  become  powerless  to  supersede  it. 

From  these  causes  and  causes  like  these,  the  journals  have  lost 
much  of  their  influence.  There  is  a  languid  feeling  about  them, 
an  inclination  to  suspect  the  justice  of  their  verdicts,  the  value  of 
their  criticisms.  But  their  golden  age  cannot  be  quite  past.  They 
afford  too  convenient  a  vehicle  for  the  transmission  of  knowledge ; 
they  are  too  natural  a  feature  of  our  time  to  have  done  all  their 
work  yet.  Surely  they  may  be  redeemed  from  their  abuses,  they 
may  be  turned  to  their  true  uses.  But  how  ? 

It  were  easy  to  say  what  they  should  not  do.  They  should  not 
have  an  object  to  carry  or  a  cause  to  advocate,  which  obliges  them 
either  to  reject  all  writings  which  wear  the  distinctive  traits  of 
individual  life,  or  to  file  away  what  does  not  suit  them,  till  the 
essay,  made  true  to  their  design,  is  made  false  to  the  mind  of  the 
writer.  An  external  consistency  is  thus  produced,  at  the  expense 
of  all  salient  thought,  all  genuine  emotion  of  life,  in  short,  and  all 
living  influence.  Their  purpose  may  be  of  value,  but  by  such 


244  S.   MARGARET    FULLER. 

means  was  no  valuable  purpose  ever  furthered  long.  There  are 
those,  who  have  with  the  best  intention  pursued  this  system  of 
trimming  and  adaptation,  and  thought  it  well  and  best  to 

"Deceive  their  country  for  their  country's  good." 

But  their  country  cannot  long  be  so  governed.  It  misses  the 
pure,  the  full  tone  of  truth ;  it  perceives  that  the  voice  is  modulated 
to  coax,  to  persuade,  and  it  turns  from  the  judicious  man  of  the 
world,  calculating  the  effect  to  be  produced  by  each  of  his  smooth 
sentences,  to  some  earnest  voice  which  is  uttering  thoughts,  crude, 
rash,  ill-arranged  it  may  be,  but  true  to  one  human  breast,  and 
uttered  in  full  faith,  that  the  God  of  Truth  will  guide  them  aright. 

And  here,  it  seems  to  me,  has  been  the  greatest  mistake  in  the 
conduct  of  these  journals.  A  smooth  monotony  has  been  attained, 
an  uniformity  of  tone,  so  that  from  the  title  of  a  journal  you  can 
infer  the  tenor  of  all  its  chapters.  But  nature  is  ever  various, 
ever  new,  and  so  should  be  her  daughters,  art  and  literature.  We 
do  not  want  merely  a  polite  response  to  what  we  thought  before, 
but  by  the  freshness  of  thought  in  other  minds  to  have  new  thought 
awakened  in  our  own.  We  do  not  want  stores  of  information  only, 
but  to  be  roused  to  digest  these  into  knowledge.  Able  and  expe 
rienced  men  write  for  us,  and  we  would  know  what  they  think,  as 
they  think  it  not  for  us  but  for  themselves.  We  would  live  with 
them,  rather  than  be  taught  by  them  how  to  live ;  we  would  catch 
the  contagion  of  their  mental  activity,  rather  than  have  them  direct 
us  how  to  regulate  our  own.  In  books,  in  reviews,  in  the  senate, 
in  the  pulpit,  we  wish  to  meet  thinking  men,  not  schoolmasters  or 
pleaders.  We  wish  that  they  should  do  full  justice  to  their  own 
view,  but  also  that  they  should  be  frank  with  us,  and,  if  now  our 
superiors,  treat  us  as  if  we  might  some  time  rise  to  be  their  equals. 
It  is  this  true  manliness,  this  firmness  in  his  own  position,  and  this 
power  of  appreciating  the  position  of  others,  that  alone  can  make 
the  critic  our  companion  and  friend.  We  would  converse  with  him, 
secure  that  he  will  tell  us  all  his  thought,  and  speak  as  man  to  man. 
But  if  he  adapts  his  work  to  us,  if  he  stifles  what  is  distinctively 
his,  if  he  shows  himself  either  arrogant  or  mean,  or,  above  all,  if 


S.    MARGARET    FULLER.  245 

he  wants  faith  in  the  healthy  action  of  free  thought,  and  the  safety 
of  pure  motive,  we  will  not  talk  with  him,  for  we  cannot  confide  in 
him.  We  will  go  to  the  critic  who  trusts  Genius  and  trusts  us,  who 
knows  that  all  good  writing  must  be  spontaneous,  and  who  will 
write  out  the  bill  of  fare  for  the  public  as  he  read  it  for  himself, — 

"  Forgetting  vulgar  rules,-  with  spirit  free 
To  judge  each  author  by  his  own  intent, 
Nor  think  one  standard  for  all  minds  is  meant." 

Such  an  one  will  not  disturb  us  with  personalities,  with  sectarian 
prejudices,  or  an  undue  vehemence  in  favour  of  petty  plans  or 
temporary  objects.  Neither  will  he  disgust  us  by  smooth  obse 
quious  flatteries,  and  an  inexpressive,  lifeless  gentleness.  He  will 
be  free  and  make  free  from  the  mechanical  and  distorting  influences 
we  hear  complained  of  on  every  side.  He  will  teach  us  to  love 
wisely  what  we  before  loved  well,  for  he  knows  the  difference  be 
tween  censoriousness  and  discernment,  infatuation  and  reverence ; 
and  while  delighting  in  the  genial  melodies  of  Pan,  can  perceive, 
should  Apollo  bring  his  lyre  into  audience,  that  there  may  be  strains 
more  divine  than  those  of  his  native  groves. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 


HARRIET  ELIZABETH  BEECHER  is  the  daughter  of  Rev.  Lyman 
Beecher,  D.  D.,  and  seems  to  have  inherited  much  of  the  splendid  talents 
of  her  father.  She  was  born  at  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  June  15,  1812. 
She  went  to  Cincinnati  with  her  father's  family  in  the  autumn  of  1832. 
In  the  winter  of  1836  she  was  married  to  Professor  Calvin  E.  Stowe,  of 
the  Theological  Seminary  of  that  place.  In  1850  Professor  Stowe 
accepted  a  professorship  in  Bowdoin  College,  Brunswick,  Maine,  where 
the  family  now  reside. 

Mrs.  Stowe's  writings  are  found  principally  in  the  various  literary  and 
religious  periodicals  of  the  country,  and  in  a  volume  of  tales,  called  "  The 
Mayflower/'  published  in  1843.  She  has  not  written  so  much  as  some 
of  our  female  authors,  but  what  she  has  written  has  left  a  profound 
impression.  She  is  remarkable  for  the  qualities  of  force  and  clearness. 
Few  readers  can  resist  the  current  of  her  argument,  and  none  can  mistake 
her  meaning.  She  possesses  also  a  great  fund  of  wit,  and  a  delicate  play 
of  fancy  not  inferior  to  our  most  imaginative  writers. 


THE  TEA  ROSE. 

THERE  it  stood,  in  its  little  green  vase,  on  a  light  ebony  stand, 
in  the  window  of  the  drawing-room.  The  rich  satin  curtains,  with 
their  costly  fringes,  swept  down  on  either  side  of  it,  and  around  it 
glittered  every  rare  and  fanciful  trifle  which  wealth  can  offer  to 
luxury,  and  yet  that  simple  rose  was  the  fairest  of  them  all.  So 
pure  it  looked,  its  white  leaves  just  touched  with  that  delicious 
creamy  tint  peculiar  to  its  kind ;  its  cup  so  full,  so  perfect ;  its 

(246) 


HARRIET    BEECHER    STOWE.  247 

head  bending  as  if  it  were  sinking  and  melting  away  in  its  own 
richness — oh !  when  did  ever  man  make  anything  to  equal  the 
living,  perfect  flower ! 

But  the  sunlight  that  streamed  through  the  window  revealed 
something  fairer  than  the  rose.  Reclined  on  an  ottoman,  in  a 
deep  recess,  and  intently  engaged  with  a  book,  rested  what  seemed 
the  counterpart  of  that  so  lovely  flower.  That  cheek  so  pale,  that 
fair  forehead  so  spiritual,  that  countenance  so  full  of  high  thought, 
those  long,  downcast  lashes,  and  the  expression  of  the  beautiful 
mouth,  sorrowful,  yet  subdued  and  sweet — it  seemed  like  the  picture 
of  a  dream. 

"Florence  !  Florence  !"  echoed  a  merry  and  musical  voice,  in  a 
sweet,  impatient  tone.  Turn  your  head,  reader,  and  you  will  see 
a  light  and  sparkling  maiden,  the  very  model  of  some  little  wilful 
elf,  born  of  mischief  and  motion,  with  a  dancing  eye,  a  foot  that 
scarcely  seems  to  touch  the  carpet,  and  a  smile  so  multiplied  by 
dimples  that  it  seems  like  a  thousand  smiles  at  once.  "  Come, 
Florence,  I  say,"  said  the  little  sprite,  "put  down  that  wise,  good, 
and  excellent  volume,  and  descend  from  your  cloud,  and  talk  with 
a  poor  little  mortal." 

The  fair  apparition,  thus  adjured,  obeyed;  and,  looking  up, 
revealed  just  such  eyes  as  you  expected  to  see  beneath  such  lids — 
eyes  deep,  pathetic,  and  rich  as  a  strain  of  sad  music. 

"I  say,  cousin,"  said  the  "light  ladye,"  "I  have  been  thinking 
what  you  are  to  do  with  your  pet  rose  when  you  go  to  New  York, 
as,  to  our  consternation,  you  are  determined  to  do ;  you  know  it 
would  be  a  sad  pity  to  leave  it  with  such  a  scatterbrain  as  I  am. 
I  do  love  flowers,  that  is  a  fact ;  that  is,  I  like  a  regular  bouquet, 
cut  off  and  tied  up,  to  carry  to  a  party ;  but  as  to  all  this  tending 
and  fussing,  which  is  needful  to  keep  them  growing,  I  have  no  gifts 
in  that  line." 

"Make  yourself  easy  as  to  that,  Kate,"  said  Florence,  with  a 
smile  ;  "  I  have  no  intention  of  calling  upon  your  talents ;  I  have 
an  asylum  in  view  for  my  favourite." 

"  Oh,  then  you  know  just  what  I  was  going  to  say.  Mrs.  Mar 
shall,  I  presume,  has  been  speaking  to  you ;  she  was  here  yester- 


248  HARRIET    BEECHER   STOWE. 

day,  and  I  was  quite  pathetic  upon  the  subject,  telling  her  the  loss 
your  favourite  would  sustain,  and  so  forth;  and  she  said  how 
delighted  she  would  be  to  have  it  in  her  green-house,  it  is  in  such 
a  fine  state  now,  so  full  of  buds.  I  told  her  I  knew  you  would 
like  to  give  it  to  her,  you  are  so  fond  of  Mrs.  Marshall,  you 
know." 

"Now,  Kate,  I  am  sorry,  but  I  have  otherwise  engaged  it." 

"Who  can  it  be  to ?  you  have  so  few  intimates  here." 

"  Oh,  it  is  only  one  of  my  odd  fancies." 

"But  do  tell  me,  Florence." 

"  Well,  cousin,  you  know  the  pale  little  girl  to  whom  we  give 
sewing." 

"  What !  little  Mary  Stephens  ?  How  absurd  !  Florence,  this 
is  just  another  of  your  motherly,  old-maidish  ways — dressing  dolls 
for  poor  children,  making  bonnets  and  knitting  socks  for  all  the 
dirty  little  babies  in  the  region  round  about.  I  do  believe  you 
have  made  more  calls  in  those  two  vile,  ill-smelling  alleys  back  of 
our  house,  than  ever  you  have  in  Chestnut  street,  though  you 
know  everybody  is  half  dying  to  see  you ;  and  now,  to  crown  all, 
you  must  give  this  choice  little  bijou  to  a  sempstress-girl,  when  one 
of  your  most  intimate  friends,  in  your  own  class,  would  value  it  so 
highly.  What  in  the  world  can  people  in  their  circumstances  want 
with  flowers?" 

"  Just  the  same  as  I  do,"  replied  Florence,  calmly.  "  Have 
you  not  noticed  that  the  little  girl  never  comes  here  without 
looking  wistfully  at  the  opening  buds  ?  And,  don't  you  remem 
ber,  the  other  morning  she  asked  me  so  prettily  if  I  would  let  her 
mother  come  and  see  it,  she  was  so  fond  of  flowers  ?" 

"  But,  Florence,  only  think  of  this  rare  flower  standing  on  a 
table  with  ham,  eggs,  cheese,  and  flour,  ^and  stifled  in  that  close 
little  room  where  Mrs.  Stephens  and  her  daughter  manage  to  wash, 
iron,  cook,  and  nobody  knows  what  besides." 

"  Well,  Kate,  and  if  I  were  obliged  to  live  in  one  coarse  room, 
and  wash,  and  iron,  and  cook,  as  you  say — if  I  had  to  spend  every 
moment  of  my  time  in  toil,  with  no  prospect  from  my  window  but 


HARRIET    BEE  CHER   STOWE.  249 

a  brick  wall  and  dirty  lane,  such  a  flower  as  this  would  be  untold 
enjoyment  to  me." 

"  Pshaw !  Florence — all  sentiment :  poor  people  have  no  time 
to  be  sentimental.  Besides,  I  don't  believe  it  will  grow  with 
them ;  it  is  a  greenhouse  flower,  and  used  to  delicate  living." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  a  flower  never  inquires  whether  its  owner  is 
rich  or  poor ;  and  Mrs.  Stephens,  whatever  else  she  has  not,  has 
sunshine  of  as  good  quality  as  this  that  streams  through  our  win 
dow.  The  beautiful  things  that  God  makes  are  his  gift  to  all  alike. 
You  will  see  that  my  fair  rose  will  be  as  well  and  cheerful  in  Mrs. 
Stephens's  room  as  in  ours." 

"  Well,  after  all,  how  odd  !  When  one  gives  to  poor  people,  one 
wants  to  give  them  something  useful — a  bushel  of  potatoes,  a  ham, 
and  such  things." 

"Why,  certainly,  potatoes  and  ham  must  be  supplied;  but, 
having  ministered  to  the  first  and  most  craving  wants,  why  not  add 
any  other  little  pleasures  or  gratifications  we  may  have  it  in  our 
power  to  bestow  ?  I  know  there  are  many  of  the  poor  who  have 
fine  feeling  and  a  keen  sense  of  the  beautiful,  which  rusts  out  and 
dies  because  they  are  too  hard  pressed  to  procure  it  any  gratifica 
tion.  Poor  Mrs.  Stephens,  for  example :  I  know  she  would  enjoy 
birds,  and  flowers,  and  music,  as  much  as  I  do.  I  have  seen  her 
eye  light  up  as  she  looked  on  these  things  in  our  drawing-room,  and 
yet  not  one  beautiful  thing  can  she  command.  From  necessity,  her 
room,  her  clothing,  all  she  has,  must  be  coarse  and  plain.  You 
should  have  seen  the  almost  rapture  she  and  Mary  felt  when  I 
offered  them  my  rose." 

"  Dear  me !  all  this  may  be  true,  but  I  never  thought  of  it 
before.  I  never  thought  that  these  hard-working  people  had  any 
ideas  of  taste  /" 

"  Then  why  do  you  see  the  geranium  or  rose  so  carefully  nursed 
in  the  old  cracked  teapot  in  the  poorest  room,  or  the  morning-glory 
planted  in  a  box  and  twined  about  the  window.  Do  not  these  show 
that  the  human  heart  yearns  for  the  beautiful  in  all  ranks  of  life  ? 
You  remember,  Kate,  how  our  washerwoman  sat  up  a  whole  night, 

32 


250  HARRIET    BEECHER    STOWE. 

after  a  hard  day's  work,  to  make  her  first  baby  a  pretty  dress  to 
be  baptized  in." 

"  Yes,  and  I  remember  how  I  laughed  at  you  for  making  such  a 
tasteful  little  cap  for  it." 

"  Well,  Katy,  I  think  the  look  of  perfect  delight  with  which  the 
poor  mother  regarded  her  baby  in  its  new  dress  and  cap,  was  some 
thing  quite  worth  creating ;  I  do  believe  she  could  not  have  felt 
more  grateful  if  I  had  sent  her  a  barrel  of  flour." 

"  Well,  I  never  thought  before  of  giving  anything  to  the  poor 
but  what  they  really  needed,  and  I  have  always  been  willing  to  do 
that  when  I  could  without  going  far  out  of  my  way." 

"  Well,  cousin,  if  our  heavenly  Father  gave  to  us  after  this  mode, 
we  should  have  only  coarse,  shapeless  piles  of  provisions  lying  about 
the  world,  instead  of  all  this  beautiful  variety  of  trees,  and  fruits, 
and  flowers." 

"  Well,  well,  cousin,  I  suppose  you  are  right — but  have  mercy 
on  my  poor  head ;  it  is  too  small  to  hold  so  many  new  ideas  all  at 
once — so  go  on  your  own  way."  And  the  little  lady  began  prac 
tising  a  waltzing  step  before  the  glass  with  great  satisfaction. 


It  was  a  very  small  room,  lighted  by  only  one  window.  There 
was  no  carpet  on  the  floor;  there  was  a  clean,  but  coarsely- 
covered  bed  in  one  corner;  a  cupboard,  with  a  few  dishes  and 
plates,  in  the  other ;  a  chest  of  drawers ;  and  before  the  window 
stood  a  small  cherry  stand,  quite  new,  and,  indeed,  it  was  the  only 
article  in  the  room  that  seemed  so. 

A  pale,  sickly-looking  woman  of  about  forty  was  leaning  back  in 
her  rocking-chair,  her  eyes  closed  and  her  lips  compressed  as  if  in 
pain.  She  rocked  backward  and  forward  a  few  minutes,  pressed 
her  hand  hard  upon  her  eyes,  and  then  languidly  resumed  her  fine 
stitching,  on  which  she  had  been  busy  since  morning.  The  door 
opened,  and  a  slender  little  girl  of  about  twelve  years  of  age  entered, 
her  large  blue  eyes  dilated  and  radiant  with  delight  as  she  bore  in 
the  vase  with  the  rose-tree  in  it. 


HARRIET   BEECHER  STOWE.  251 

"  Oh !  see,  mother,  see !  Here  is  one  in  full  bloom,  and  two 
more  half  out,  and  ever  so  many  more  pretty  buds  peeping  out  of 
the  green  leaves." 

The  poor  woman's  face  brightened  as  she  looked,  first  on  the 
rose  and  then  on  her  sickly  child,  on  whose  face  she  had  not  seen 
so  bright  a  colour  for  months. 

"God  bless  her!"  she  exclaimed,  unconsciously. 

"  Miss  Florence — yes,  I  knew  you  would  feel  so,  mother.  Does 
it  not  make  your  head  feel  better  to  see  such  a  beautiful  flower  ? 
Now  you  will  not  look  so  longingly  at  the  flowers  in  the  market, 
for  we  have  a  rose  that  is  handsomer  than  any  of  them.  Why,  it 
seems  to  me  it  is  worth  as  much  to  us  as  our  whole  little  garden 
used  to  be.  Only  see  how  many  buds  there  are !  Just  count 
them,  and  only  smell  the  flower  !  Now  where  shall  we  set  it  up  ?" 
And  Mary  skipped  about,  placing  her  flower  first  in  one  position 
and  then  in  another,  and  walking  off  to  see  the  effect,  till  her 
mother  gently  reminded  her  that  the  rose-tree  could  not  preserve 
its  beauty  without  sunlight. 

U0h  yes,  truly,"  said  Mary;  "well,  then,  it  must  stand  here 
on  our  new  stand.  How  glad  I  am  that  we  have  such  a  handsome 
new  stand  for  it ;  it  will  look  so  much  better."  And  Mrs.  Ste 
phens  laid  down  her  work,  and  folded  a  piece  of  newspaper,  on 
which  the  treasure  was  duly  deposited. 

"There,"  said  Mary,  watching  the  arrangement  eagerly,  "that 
will  do — no,  for  it  does  not  show  both  the  opening  buds ;  a  little 
farther  around — a  little  more;  there,  that  is  right;"  and  then 
Mary  walked  around  to  view  the  rose  in  various  positions,  after 
which  she  urged  her  mother  to  go  with  her  to  the  outside,  and  see 
how  it  looked  there.  "  How  kind  it  was  in  Miss  Florence  to  think 
of  giving  this  to  us!"  said  Mary;  "though  she  had  done  so  much 
for  us,  and  given  us  so  many  things,  yet  this  seems  the  best  of  all, 
because  it  seems  as  if  she  thought  of  us,  and  knew  just  how  we 
felt ;  and  so  few  do  that,  you  know,  mother." 

What  a  bright  afternoon  that  little  gift  made  in  that  little  room  ! 
How  much  faster  Mary's  fingers  flew  the  livelong  day  as  she  sat 
sewing  by  her  mother ;  and  Mrs.  Stephens,  in  the  happiness  of  her 


252  HARRIET    BEE  CHER    STOWE. 

child,  almost  forgot  that  she  had  a  headache,  and  thought,  as  she 
sipped  her  evening  cup  of  tea,  that  she  felt  stronger  than  she  had 
done  for  some  time. 

That  rose !  its  sweet  influence  died  not  with  the  first  day. 
Through  all  the  long  cold  winter,  the  watching,  tending,  cherish 
ing  of  that  flower  awakened  a  thousand  pleasant  trains  of  thought, 
that  beguiled  the  sameness  and  weariness  of  their  life.  Every 
day  the  fair,  growing  thing  put  forth  some  fresh  beauty — a  leaf, 
a  bud,  a  new  shoot,  and  constantly  awakened  fresh  enjoyment  in 
its  possessors.  As  it  stood  in  the  window,  the  passer-by  would 
sometimes  stop  and  gaze,  attracted  by  its  beauty,  and  then  proud 
and  happy  was  Mary ;  nor  did  even  the  serious  and  careworn 
widow  notice  with  indifference  this  tribute  to  the  beauty  of  their 
favourite. 

But  little  did  Florence  think,  when  she  bestowed  the  gift,  that 
there  twined  about  it  an  invisible  thread  that  reached  far  and 
brightly  into  the  web  of  her  destiny. 

One  cold  afternoon  in  early  spring,  a  tall  and  graceful  gentle 
man  called  at  the  lowly  room  to  pay  for  the  making  of  some  linen 
by  the  inmates.  He  was  a  stranger  and  wayfarer,  recommended 
through  the  charity  of  some  of  Mrs.  Stephens's  patrons.  As  he 
turned  to  go,  his  eye  rested  admiringly  on  the  rose-tree,  and  he 
stopped  to  gaze  at  it. 

"  How  beautiful !"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  said  little  Mary,  "and  it  was  given  to  us  by  a  lady  as 
sweet  and  beautiful  as  that  is." 

"Ah!"  said  the  stranger,  turning  upon  her  a  pair  of  bright 
dark  eyes,  pleased  and  rather  struck  by  the  communication ; 
"  and  how  came  she  to  give  it  to  you,  my  little  girl  ?" 

"  Oh,  because  we  are  poor,  and  mother  is  sick,  and  we  never  can 
have  anything  pretty.  We  used  to  have  a  garden  once,  and  we 
loved  flowers  so  much,  and  Miss  Florence  found  it  out,  and  so  she 
gave  us  this." 

"Florence!"  echoed  the  stranger. 

"  Yes— Miss  Florence  1'Estrange— a  beautiful  lady.     They  say 


HARRIETBEECHERSTOWE.  253 

she  was  from  foreign  parts ;  but  she  speaks  English  just  like  other 
ladies,  only  sweeter." 

"Is  she  here  now?  Is  she  in  this  city?"  said  the  gentleman, 
eagerly. 

"  No ;  she  left  some  months  ago,"  said  the  widow,  noticing  the 
shade  of  disappointment  on  his  face;  "but,"  said  she,  "you  can 

find  out  all  about  her  at  her  aunt's,  Mrs.  Carlysle's,  No.  10 

street." 

A  short  time  after,  Florence  received  a  letter  in  a  handwriting 
that  made  her  tremble.  During  the  many  early  years  of  her  life 
spent  in  France,  she  had  well  learned  to  know  that  writing — had 
loved  as  a  woman  like  her  loves  only  once ;  but  there  had  been 
obstacles  of  parents  and  friends,  long  separation,  long  suspense, 
till,  after  anxious  years,  she  had  believed  the  ocean  had  closed 
over  that  hand  and  heart ;  and  it  was  this  that  had  touched  with 
such  pensive  sorrow  the  lines  in  her  lovely  face. 

But  this  letter  told  that  he  was  living, — that  he  had  traced  her, 
even  as  a  hidden  streamlet  may  be  traced,  by  the  freshness,  the 
verdure  of  heart,  which  her  deeds  of  kindness  had  left  wherever 
she  had  passed. 

Thus  much  said,  my  readers  need  no  help  in  finishing  the  story 
for  themselves. 


SABA  H.  BROWNE. 


SARA  HALL  BROWNE,  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  was  born  in  Sunder- 
land,  Massachusetts,  during  one  of  those  calamitous  periods  which  not 
unfrequently  interrupt  the  prosperity  of  families,  where  the  husband  and 
father  is  engaged  in  the  mercantile  profession.  A  series  of  misfortunes 
and  losses  had  reduced  her  parents,  at  the  time  of  her  birth,  to  circum 
stances  of  difficulty  and  embarrassment,  which  ultimately  led  to  the  aban 
donment  of  trade  for  the  safer  and  surer  pursuit  of  agriculture.  With 
this  design  they  removed  to  Hyde  Hillside,  a  pleasant  maternal  estate  in 
the  retired  town  of  Templeton,  Massachusetts,  which  has  ever  since  been 
the  family  residence. 

A  very  quiet  place  is  the  Hillside ;  beautiful  and  picturesque  in  its 
environments.  Sequestered  like  a  nest  among  the  hills,  it  is  a  sweet,  wild, 
rural  abode,  every  way  fitted  to  be  a  child's  paradise,  and  the  nursery  and 
school  of  that  species  of  genius  which  feasts  on  natural  beauty  and  unfolds 
most  successfully  in  solitude. 

Hyde  Hillside  is,  some  might  affirm,  a  very  lonely  abode,  on  the  southern 
slope  of  a  rocky  hill,  yet  surrounded  by  scenery  of  remarkable  beauty.  On 
the  east,  the  descent  is  quite  abrupt  for  a  few  hundred  yards  to  a  beauti 
ful  expanse  of  water,  partly  lying  in  the  shadow  of  dark  pine  woods,  and 
again  spread  out  in  the  sunshine,  sparkling  like  a  lake  of  molten  diamonds. 
Another  hill  rises  from  this  watery  interval,  with  a  smooth  and  gradual 
ascent,  for  a  mile  or  two,  on  the  summit  of  which  stands  the  pleasant 
village  of  Templeton,  in  full  view,  with  its  trees,  its  church  spires,  and 
its  white  dwellings. 

Mount  Monadnock  rises,  hoary  and  cloud-capped,  to  the  north,  while 
on  the  south  and  west  the  prospect  is  bounded  by  hill  and  woodland. 

The  venerable  ancestral  mansion  is  a  large  commodious  dwelling,  which 
has  offered  the  hospitalities  of  nearly  a  century  to  friend  and  stranger. 

(254) 


SARA   H.   BROWNE.  255 

In  this  rural  retreat  was  passed  Miss  Browne's  childhood;  here  was  she 
instructed  by  an  excellent  mother  in  all  those  domestic  virtues  which  are 
appropriate  to  the  female  character,  in  all  stations  and  circumstances ; 
here  were  laid  the  foundations  of  every  valuable  attainment  which  after 
years  may  have  more  fully  developed;  here  dawned  those  aspirations, 
which,  kindled  by  the  fire  of  inborn  genius,  quickened  and  expanded  by 
judicious  parental  encouragement,  have  borne  her  ever  onward  in  a  career 
certainly  not  after  the  ordinary  level  of  common  workday  life,  and  which 
promises  to  give  her  a  still  widening  sphere  of  influence  and  usefulness. 

By  the  aid  of  advanced  preparation  in  the  home  school-room,  and  the 
practice  of  rigorous  economy — for  her  pecuniary  resources  were  by  no 
means  abundant — Miss  Browne  was  able  to  complete  an  extensive  course 
of  study,  in  one  of  our  best  female  seminaries,  in  1841.  For  a  short  time 
subsequently  she  engaged  in  teaching,  but  a  severe  and  protracted  bronchial 
affection  ultimately  prohibited  effort  in  that  department  of  congenial 
labour. 

In  1846  occurred  her  first  great  sorrow,  in  the  death  of  a  father  whose 
moral  and  intellectual  worth  and  experience  were  always  a  safe  anchorage 
for  the  doubts  and  dime  til  ties  of  children  who  ever  had  occasion  to  rise  up 
and  call  him  blessed,  alike  for  the  prudent  and  judicious  policy  exercised 
in  their  mental  training  and  direction,  as  for  those  lessons  of  piety  and 
benevolence  which  he  was  faithful  to  instil  and  to  exemplify. 

Within  the  last  few  years  Miss  Browne  has  devoted  herself  mainly  to 
the  literary  profession,  both  as  a  means  of  giving  scope  to  her  inclina 
tions  and  tastes,  and  of  gaining  an  independent  livelihood.  Having 
encountered  trials  and  overcome  difficulties  which  would  have  daunted  a 
less  courageous  heart,  she  seems  particularly  prepared  to  contend  in  that 
race  in  which  mind  measures  with  mind,  and  ultimately  to  put  on  the 
laurels  which  belong  to  the  victor. 

Though  yet  at  the  very  commencement  of  her  literary  career,  Miss 
Browne  has  won  very  unequivocal  favour  both  as  a  vigorous  painter  of 
illustrative  fiction  and  a  teacher  of  religious  truth. 

Her  prose  is  characterized  by  a  very  marked  originality,  force,  and 
point.  The  moral  she  invariably  inculcates  is  always  apparent  in  its 
meaning  and  strong  in  its  application.  The  characters  she  delineates  are 
clearly  individualized,  and  usually  contrasted  finely  with  one  another, 
while  a  tendency  to,  and  keen  relish  of,  the  humorous  is  distinctly  per 
ceptible.  She  unfolds  truthfully  and  happily  the  workings  of  the  purest 
and  tenderest  human  sensibilities,  yet  her  style  never  verges  towards  senti- 
mentalism,  and  the  entire  survey  of  her  published  writings  would  not 
furnish  a  single  sickly  feature,  or  a  single  example  which  would  lay  her 
open  to  the  charge  of  moral  cowardice.  Light  and  shadow,  joy  and  sor- 


256  SARA    H.    BROWNE. 

row.  tears  and  laughter,  tragedy  and  comedy,  follow  in  the  wake  of  her 
versatile  pen. 

As  a  religious  writer,  no  one  can  mistake  the  earnest  loving  warmth  of 
the  Christian  heart.  Baptized  into  the  spirit  of  that  piety  she  commends 
to  others,  especially  to  the  young,  her  success  in  this  department  of  let 
ters  has  been  truly  encouraging.  Her  "Book  for  the  Eldest  Daughter," 
has  had  and  will  continue  to  have  a  wide  circulation ;  and  she  has  received 
from  time  to  time  most  grateful  assurances  of  its  popularity  and  useful 
ness.  It  is  indeed  a  felicitous  compound  of  physical,  intellectual,  moral, 
and  religious  instruction,  given  in  a  clear,  affectionate,  attractive  style, 
which  falls  on  the  young  ear  and  heart  like  those  sweet  "  mother  tones" 
which  irresistibly  constrain  to  the  path  of  virtue  and  holiness. 

As  a  poetess,  Miss  Browne  is  not  remarkably  prolific ;  she  writes  deli 
berately  and  cautiously,  rather  than  abundantly.  She  is  a  poetic  sculp 
tor  rather  than  painter — patient  to  chisel  into  perfect  harmony  and 
proportion,  the  outline  and  lineaments  of  every  image  whose  glowing  ideal 
adorns  the  inner  chambers  of  her  imagination. 

A  list  of  Miss  Browne's  publications  is  given  in  the  subjoined  note. 

For  Sartain's  Union  Magazine,  Miss  Browne  has  furnished  various  articles 
of  prose  and  poety,  viz. :  In  1849,  a  "Salutation  to  Fredrika  Bremer;"  "Wa 
ters  of  Marah,"  (poem) ;  in  1850,  "The  Goblet  of  Revenge,"  (poem);  "Song  of 
the  Winter  Serenaders,"  (poem);  "Death  Bed  of  Schiller;"  in  1851,  "  The  Token 
of  Hope,"  (poem);  "  Sing  to  me,"  (poem).  For  the  Dollar  Newspaper,  Philadel 
phia — 1847,  a  prose  tale,  "Reforming  a  Husband;"  in  1848,  «  Fretting  for  a 
Secret ;"  "  Prescribed  by  a  Physician ;"  in  1849,  "  Maying  in  December ;"  in  1850, 
"  The  Iron  Grays."  For  the  Boston  Rambler  and  National  Library,  Boston — 

1847,  "  Capt.  Gage's  Cousins  ;"  "  The  First  Falsehood  ;"  "  The  Pauper  Bride ;"  in 

1848,  "  Things  Old,  "Nos.  I.  II.  Ill;  in  1849,  "Mary  Stuart's  last  Pageant,"  (poem); 
"  The  Two  Homes  ;"  "  The  Snow  Buried,"  (poem).     For  the  American  Cabinet 
and  Atheneum — 1848,    "One  Among   a  Thousand;"    "John   Quincy  Adams," 
(poem) ;  in  1849,  "  Mendelssohn's  last  Composition,"  (poem) ;  "  The  First  Crime," 
(poem) ;  in  1850,  "  Mode  and  Tense."  For  the  Lady's  Book  several  poems  :  1845, 
"  Last  of  the  Asmonians,"  (poem);  in  1843, "  The  Unknown  Flower,"  (poem);  in  1847, 
"Madame  Roland,"  (poem) ;  « The  Wife's  Dowry,"  (poem);  in  1845,  "  The  Costliest 
Gift,"  (poem).     Besides  a  great  many  other  fugitive  articles  of  both  prose  and 
poetry  for  various  magazines,  papers,  and  annuals.     In  1847,  her  first  volume 
was  published,  entitled  "My  Early  Friends  ;"  1849,  "Book  for  the  Eldest  Daugh 
ter,"  a  work  of  between  two  and  three  hundred  pages ;  1850,  "  Recollections  of 
my  Sabbath  School  Teachers,"  besides  others  now  in  press,  and  a  volume  of  poems 
in  course  of  preparation. 


SARA  H.  BROWNE.  257 


A  SALUTATION  TO  FREDRIKA  BREMER. 

WHEN  America  bids  you  welcome,  sweet  Lady  of  the  Norseland, 
it  is  not  as  a  stranger.  "With  the  lineaments  of  your  countenance, 
to  be  sure,  she  cannot  assert  familiarity,  but  then  how  small  a  por 
tion  of  one's  individuality  is  the  face !  Useful  indeed  it  is  to  its 
possessor,  and  pleasant  to  look  upon  as  the  medium  of  noble,  or 
gentle,  or  playful  emotions ;  but  ah  !  how  much  may  be  learned  of 
a  human  being  with  no  knowledge  of  the  physical  outline  !  The 
soul  can  speak  with  a  voice  so  clear  and  far-resounding  that 
"nations,  and  tongues,  and  people,"  catch  the  strain  and  echo  it 
from  heart  to  heart  till  the  speaker  is  lost  in  what  she  has  spoken ! 
Thus  is  it,  Lady  of  the  Norseland,  between  you  and  America, 
when  she  takes  you  by  the  hand  to  greet  your  first  footstep  on  the 
soil. 

The  great,  the  rich,  the  titled  sometimes  come  from  the  Father 
land  to  view  our  cities,  our  forests,  our  lakes,  our  foaming  cataracts, 
our  lofty  mountains,  our  interminable  caverns.  The  splendour  of 
their  retinue  and  appointments  dazzles  the  eye  as  they  dash  from 
object  to  object.  They  stare  at  this,  wonder  at  that,  dance  a  few 
measures  at  somebody's  fancy  ball,  dine  with  a  bevy  of  our  million 
aires,  shake  hands  with  their  wives  and  daughters,  and  are  off  in 
the  next  steamer  to  write  a  book  of  travels  !  And  it  is  well  thought 
of,  this  book  of  travels ;  for  it  reminds  the  American  reader  of  what 
he  had  otherwise  speedily  forgotten,  viz.,  that  the  author  has  actu 
ally  been  and  gone  !  Few  heard  of  him  before  he  came — few  saw 
him — few  cared  to  recollect  him  when  he  had  taken  leave,  and,  save 
a  smile  or  two  awakened  by  the  book  of  travels,  he  is  altogether 
as  though  he  were  not.  Such  travellers  must  ever  be  strangers — 
when  they  come,  and  while  they  tarry,  and  when  they  depart.  No 
bosom  swells  joyfully  at  the  mention  of  their  names,  if  indeed  they 
are  mentioned  out  of  .the  small  circle  which  has  been  in  personal 
contact.  They  have  done  nothing,  saicl  nothing,  attempted  nothing 
which  deserves  daguerreotyping  in  a  nation's  memory,  how  lofty 

33 


258  SARA   H.    BROWNE. 

soever  their  station,  how  noble  their  descent ;  and  they  must  be 
content  with  the  tribute  of  forgetfulness  ! 

But  when  Fredrika  Bremer  declares  her  resolution  to  cross 
the  world  of  waves  which  roll  between  us  and  the  Norseland,  and 
the  papers,  circulating  in  the  huts  and  hamlets  all  over  our  broad 
land,  echo  that  intention,  an  emotion  of  a  different  kind  is  stirred, 
and  thousands  of  glad  young  voices  from  the  cabin  as  well  as  from 
the  villa,  exclaim,  "  Welcome  to  her  !"  There  is  no  need  to  explain 
who  she  is,  or  whence  she  comes — there  is  not  a  hamlet  in  all  the 
land  where  the  question  could  not  be  intelligently  answered,  accom 
panied  with  a  hearty  "  God  bless  her  !" 

What  has  made  the  difference  between  them  ?  between  these 
scores  of  gay,  and  proud,  and  rich,  and  great,  who  move  among  us 
like  meteors  from  time  to  time,  and  this  one  woman,  whose  soft  and 
steady  starlight  has  reached  us  long  before  the  path  of  her  orbit 
had  brought  her  hitherward,  to  shine  brighter  and  brighter  unto 
the  perfect  day  ? 

He  has  made  it,  Lady  of  the  Norseland,  who  anointed  you  high 
priestess  of  the  affections  in  their  truest  and  purest  exercise !  He, 
who  inspired  your  pen  to  consecrate  and  sanctify  the  Home  !  He, 
who  constrained  you  to  pour  out  from  its  full  fountain  such  rills  and 
rivers  of  Love  and  Concord,  of  Peace  and  Hope,  and  every  element 
of  the  better  life  ! 

Then  come  among  us,  and  be  sure  of  a  benediction.  Come  to 
our  cots  as  well  as  to  our  palaces — to  our  wild  woods  as  well  as  to 
our  gardens — to  our  hearts  as  well  as  to  our  hearths,  and  you  shall 
find  that  we  too  have  our  "Homes,"  our  "Brothers  and  Sisters," 
our  "Neighbours,"  our  Lares  and  Penates,  with  their  shrines  and 
vestals,  our  loves  and  lovers,  our  jealousies  and  fears,  as  well  as  all 
gentler  and  lovelier  emotions.  Come  and  see. 

From  the  class  which  the  writer  of  these  lines  would  represent,  a 
welcome  especially  sincere  and  warm  will  everywhere  await  you. 
Homes  like  hers  you  have  entered  again  and  again  with  a  soft  and 
soothing  tread — communicating  a  peace  and  joy,  a  contentedness 
with  life  and  labour  and  care — a  knowledge  that  others  have  borne 


SARA   H.   BROWNE.  259 

our  burdens  of  grief  and  disappointment,  have  wept  our  tears  and 
endured  our  agonies,  have  cherished  our  hopes  and  aimed  at  our 
mark  ;  impressing  too  a  conviction  that  others  will  yet  find  strength 
and  courage,  faith  and  fruition,  from  balmy  words  welling  up  from 
a  loving  heart,  and  dropping  like  diamonds  from  sweet  sympathizing 
lips !  Lone  dwellers  with  nature  are  we — afar  from  tower  and 
town,  from  noise  and  bustle  and  business ;  with  forest  and  lake, 
hill  and  village  for  our  wild  landscape,  with  needle  and  books, 
music  and  flowers  for  society,  through  the  long  winter  without  a 
"  Midnight  Sun."  Lights  that  have  burned  around  the  hearthstone 
have  been  here  and  there  put  out.  A  silvery  head  has  lately  gone 
from  its  "  old  arm-chair"  to  heaven.  Alas  !  alas  !  in  what  Home 
will  you  not  find  one  ever  vacant  chair  ?  Hedvig  too  has  gone,  to 
make  a  heaven  in  a  newly  consecrated  household ;  and  sometimes  we, 
the  small  remnant,  repine  for  a  little  while,  but  anon,  we  are  cheered, 
for  we  look  joyfully  onward  and  aloft,  awaiting  a  sure  reunion  day  ; 
and  sweet  words,  which  your  dear  pen  has  traced,  teach  us  lessons 
of  Life,  of  inner,  deeper,  spiritual  Life,  whose  peace  and  repose, 
like  a  broad  still  river,  sweeps  along  until  it  is  lost  in  the  ocean 
depths  of  Eternity  and  God  ! 

Yes,  you  have  made  blessed  such  homes  as  ours.  Come  to  them, 
and  make  them  lighter  and  lovelier,  by  starting  an  echo  of  your  own 
human  voice,  and  a  reflection  of  your  own  human  smile,  and  we 
will  love  you  better — and  for  ever  ! 


MARIA  J.   B.   BROWNE. 


MARIA  JANE  BANCROFT  BROWNE  is  a  native  of  the  beautiful  town  of 
Northampton,  Mass.  In  her  early  childhood,  however,  her  parents 
removed  from  that  place  to  the  retired  inland  town  of  Templeton,  Mass., 
which  has  since  been  her  home. 

Miss  Browne's  parents  belonged  to  that  judicious  class,  who,  while  their 
pecuniary  means  were  restricted,  considered  the  acquisition  of  a  liberal 
education  by  their  children  of  vastly  more  value  than  the  inheritance  of 
that  wealth  which  so  proverbially  spreads  its  pinions  and  flies  away,  or, 
what  is  worse,  enchains  the  energies  to  frivolity  and  indolence.  To  faci 
litate  so  desirable  an  object,  these  excellent  parents  did  what  they  could. 
They  had  already  transmitted  to  their  daughters  their  own  characteristics 
of  energy,  resolution,  and  perseverance,  and  having  removed  obstacles  out 
of  the  way,  they  left  those  qualities,  under  the  sunshine  of  encouraging 
words  and  smiles,  to  their  own  irrepressible  expansiveness  and  eventual 
success.  Thrown  thus  mainly  on  their  own  resources,  Miss  Browne  and 
her  two  elder  sisters  succeeded  in  completing  an  extensive  course  of  study, 
and  were  graduated  with  distinction  at  the  Mount  Holyoke  Seminary  in 
1841.  Since  that  time  Miss  Browne  has  devoted  herself  principally  to 
the  instruction  and  training  of  young  ladies  in  the  various  departments  of 
moral,  intellectual,  and  physical  culture ;  a  profession  for  which,  by  the 
structure  of  her  own  mind,  and  the  nature  of  her  acquirements,  she  is 
very  happily  adapted. 

Her  tastes,  however, — the  bent  of  those  tastes  having  unfolded  itself  in 
very  early  life, — incline  her  to  the  pursuit  of  letters.  Endowed  with  a 
vigorous  and  varied  imagination,  gifted  with  clear,  quick,  and  discriminating 
perceptions,  which  penetrate  beneath  the  surface  of  things  for  principles  and 
conclusions ;  with  eye,  and  ear,  and  heart,  alive  to  all  that  is  lovely  and 
truthful  in  nature,  art,  and  the  peculiar  province  of  intellect — possessing 
a  wide  humanity  which  earnestly  labours  for,  and  expects  moral  renovation 

(260) 


MARIA  J.    B.   BROWNE.  261 

to  follow  the  wheels  of  progress ;  possessing  also  the  courage  and  the  skill 
to  hold  the  mirror  before  the  face  of  folly,  and  to  paint  the  silly  linea 
ments  of  its  deformity ;  we  scarcely  need  wonder  at  the  tendency  of  her 
mind  to  this  species  of  labour,  in  a  "  field  which  is  the  world." 

Miss  Browne's  literary  career  is  however,  comparatively,  but  just  begun. 
The  efforts  of  her  pen  have  been  very  favourably  received  by  the  public, 
and  these  tones  of  kindness  and  welcome  from  the  popular  voice,  encou 
rage  the  hope  that  hers  has  not  been  an  adventurous  launch  amidst  the 
shoals  and  breakers  of  authorship. 

Miss  Browne's  style  of  writing  contains  many  popular  elements  as  well 
as  intrinsic  beauties.  In  portraying  the  incidents  of  actual  life,  in  depict 
ing  scenes  of  familiar  occurrence  in  the  family  or  the  neighbourhood,  she 
has  few  equals,  and  no  superiors.  That  sterling  common  sense  which 
strips  off  the  mask  of  frivolity  and  conventionalism,  which  falls  with 
withering  and  mortifying  weight  upon  false  pretensions,  which  holds  up 
to  derision  and  contempt  those  hollow  and  heartless  principles  and  prac 
tices,  which  obtain  in  so-called  "fashionable"  society,  lends  a  peculiar 
charm  of  satisfaction  to  the  perusal  of  her  tales.  Of  these  qualities  her 
"  Town  and  Country,"  "  Marrying  for  the  Parish,"  and  "  Looking  up  in 
the  World,"  furnish  eminent  examples.  No  one  can  rise  from  the  perusal 
of  these  excellent  life-pictures,  having  fairly  imbibed  their  spirit  and 
meaning,  without  a  thrill  of  gratification  at  the  well-ordered  finale,  and 
its  admirable  point  and  truthfulness. 

She  is  playful,  pathetic,  serious,  earnest,  full  of  life  and  intensity,  never 
prosaic,  never  tedious,  never  common-place,'  deeply  imbued  with  the  reli 
gious,  largely  read  in  that  school  of  sensibility  which  enables  her  to 
sympathize  with  all  forms  of  human  sorrow  and  suffering ;  her  writings, 
consequently,  find  their  way  directly  to  the  heart  and  bosom  of  the  reader. 
In  argument,  she  is  clear,  persuasive,  and  convincing ;  in  satire,  keen,  and 
cutting,  and  a  remarkable  coherency  and  unity  runs  through  the  whole, 
so  as  to  make  it  a  difficult  thing  to  isolate  a  passage  in  any  given  article, 
on  which  something  antecedent  or  subsequent  does  not  materially  depend ; 
every  passage  is  linked  with  its  neighbour  so  necessarily  and  appropriately, 
that  an  extractor  finds  his  task  a  perplexing  one.  Harmony  and  felicity 
of  diction  is  another  invariable  attribute  of  Miss  Browne's  style  of  compo 
sition.  Her  command  of  language  is  so  affluent,  that  it  sometimes  insen 
sibly  leads  her  into  a  redundancy  of  epithet  tending  toward  the  superlative ; 
but  the  finished  elegance  of  her  periods  compensates  amply  for  this  defect, 
which  time  and  experience  will  eradicate. 

In  Miss  Browne's  religious  writings  appears  an  element  of  depth  and 
fervour  which  has  made  them  decided  favourites  with  the  serious  and  devout. 
Her  little  volumes  for  the  young  are  replete  with  pathos,  tenderness,  and 
truthfulness,  conveying  lessons  of  piety  and  virtue  in  a  manner  peculiarly 


262  MARIA  J.    B.    BROWNE. 

calculated  to  impress  the  heart  and  conscience.  In  all  there  is  something 
so  obviously  instructive,  so  high-toned  a  morality,  so  transparent  a  purity, 
so  heartfelt  a  Christianity,  which  never  once  condescends  to  utter  a  low 
thought,  an  equivocal  idea,  or  an  objectionable  word,  that  they  are  emi 
nently  proper  to  place  in  the  hands  of  children  and  youth  by  the  most 
careful  parent,  which  is;  perhaps,  the  truest  compliment  which  can  be  paid 
to  a  popular  writer. 

Miss  Browne  has  furnished  for  Sartain's  Union  Magazine,  to  which  she 
is  an  engaged  contributor,  the  following  articles:  April,  1849 — "Marrying  for 
the  Parish  ;"  October  and  November,  1849 — "  The  Ace  of  Hearts,"  Parts  I.  and 
II.;  November,  1850— "  Looking  Up  in  the  World;"  July,  1851— "The  Rabbit 
on  the  Wall."  For  Graham's  Magazine,  Philadelphia:  February,  1849 — "Les 
sons  in  German;"  September,  1849 — "Jessie  Lincoln,  or  The  City  Visiters." 
For  the  Dollar  Magazine,  New  York :  November,  1849 — "  Going  into  Winter 
Quarters;"  February,  1850 — "Condescending  to  Marry."  For  the  Ladies'  Maga 
zine,  Boston  :  November,  1846 — "  Precept  and  Example;"  February,  March,  and 
April,  1847— "Choosing  how  to  Die,"  Parts  I.,  II.,  III.,  IV. ;  October,  1847— "Not 
Wealth,  but  Worth ;"  November,  1847—"  The  Disappointed  Husband  ;"  March, 
April,  May,  June,  1848— "  Self-Conquest ;"  February,  1849— "En  Dishabille,  a 
Story  for  Young  Wives."  For  the  Dollar  Newspaper,  Philadelphia:  July,  1848 — 
"Town  and  Country;"  August,  1849 — "Reversed  Decision;"  November,  1849 — 
"Thanksgiving  Carols;"  February,  1850— "The  One-Horned  Dilemma."  For 
the  New  York  Organ  :  March,  1850—"  The  Misadventure  ;"  July,  1850—"  The 
Bachelor's  Criticisms;"  July,  1851 — "The  Promise  and  the  Pledge." 

Several  other  fugitive  sketches  have  appeared,  from  Miss  Browne's  pen,  through 
various  channels  :  "  The  Fatal  Jest,"  "  The  Bride  of  the  Buccaneer,"  "  Elizabeth 
Falconer,"  "Love  and  Policy,"  &c.  The  religious  press  has  also  brought  out  a 
variety  of  articles  from  the  same  source,  and  three  small  volumes  for  the  young : 
1848— " Margaret  McDonald,  or  The  True  Sister;"  1849— "Story  of  a  Western 
Sabbath  School ;"  1850—"  Laura  Huntley  ;"  1850—"  The  Youth's  Sketch  Book" 
(of  which  Miss  Browne  and  her  sisters  are  joint  authoresses).  The  "Snow 
Flake,"  an  annual  for  1851,  has  also  an  article  entitled  "The  Contrast,"  of  18 
pages. 


LOOKING  UP  IN  THE  WORLD. 

SOMETHING  must  be  done  to  escape  from  the  inevitable  disgrace 
and  odium  of  labouring  at  such  a  disgraceful  and  odious  business  as 
shoemaking.  James  Skates  should  not  be  a  shoemaker  any  longer, 
nor  Katy  a  shoemaker's  wife !  "  0  yes,  to  be  sure,  something  must 
be  done,"  said  Cousin  Sophronia,  "it  was  a  shame  they  were  not 
getting  above  their  neighbours,  and  looking  up  in  the  world,  when 
Katy  had  natural  abilities  to  make  so  much  of  an  appearance,  and 
cut  such  a  dash  in  the  city.  Mr.  Skates  must  be  persuaded  ;  and  she 


MARIA  J.    B.    BROWNE.  263 

guessed  between  them,  they  could  manage  it,  as  he  was  not  the 
readiest  with  arguments  or  decision,  in  matters  where  the  odds  of 
logic  were  so  decidedly  on  the  other  side.  Yes,  Skates  must  be 
brushed  up,  and  persuaded  to  go  to  the  city  with  his  family,  board 
them  at  a  hotel  or  boarding-house,  and  then  engage  himself  in  some 
employment  which  would  furnish  spending  money — money  was  to 
be  made  so  easy  in  the  city.  And  then  it  would  be  so  much  more 
respectable  than  to  biirrow  in  the  country,  where  one  never  was 
heard  of,  and  shoemake  for  a  living !  She  herself  would  introduce 
them  into  the  'first  society,'  and  bestow  favours  of  that  important 
kind  upon  them  in  such  profusion,  a  lifetime  would  not  be  long 
enough  to  cancel  the  debt  of  gratitude  they  would  owe  her  !" 

Katy  and  Sophronia  "  cut  and  dried"  the  whole  affair,  while 
Sophronia  sat  in  the  rocking-chair  with  her  mits  on,  and  fanned  her 
self;  and  Katy  ran  about  as  if  she  had  been  put  upon  an  extra  pair 
of  springs  in  every  limb,  to  wait  upon  her.  When  it  was  all  ready 
and  propped  up  on  all  sides  with  invincible  arguments,  Mr.  Skates 
was  cautiously  and  warily  "towed  in,"  to  become  the  lion  in  the 
scheme ;  while  Sophronia  and  her  cousin  worked  vigorously  at  the 
long  arm,  till  all  obstacles  were  finally  thrust  out  of  the  way. 
Indeed,  such  had  been  the  silent  effect  of  Sophronia's  "  continual 
dropping"  about  gentility  and  respectability,  even  upon  a  mind  so 
slowly  perceptive,  and  so  absolutely  common-place  as  Mr.  Skates's, 
that  the  difficulty  of  gaining  him  over  to  their  side,  was  far  less  formi 
dable  than  the  ambitious  cousins  had  anticipated.  To  the  unconcealed 
surprise  and  consternation  of  all  his  neighbours  and  friends,  and  in 
the  very  face  of  remonstrance,  and  forebodings  of  ruin,  Mr.  Skates  did 
let  his  house  and  shop,  and  consent  to  emigrate  upon  uncertainties, 
to  the  great  city — the  great  city,  which  stood  out  in  alto  relievo 
before  the  vision  of  his  wife,  like  the  veritable  Paradise.  To  his 
praise,  however,  be  it  spoken,  it  was  not  without  many  inward  mis 
givings,  and  hours  of  almost  tearful  reluctance,  that  he  started  upon 
such  a  wildgoose  chase ;  and  if  his  wife,  who  was  the  polestar  of  his 
being,  though  now  dangerously  out  of  her  true  position,  had  not 
been  on  the  wing,  fluttering  up  almost  out  of  his  sight  in  the  track 
of  her  foolish  ambition,  the  peaceful  scenes  that  had  always  encir- 


264  MARIA   J.    B.    BROWNE. 

cled  him,  and  bounded  his  desires,  and  the  almost  irresistible 
attractions  of  his  pleasant  labour,  would  have  won  him  back  from 
his  illusion,  and  left  him  a  quiet,  useful,  and  valuable  citizen. 

These  arrangements  were  very  suddenly  got  up,  and  of  course 
must  be  executed  while  at  a  fever  heat,  or  they  would  be  likely  to 
fail,  as  Mr.  Skates,  though  his  neighbours  had  never  called  him 
"shifty-minded"  before,  might  possibly  sicken  of  the  prospective 
change,  and  overturn  the  whole  just  on  the  very  eve  of  accomplish 
ment.  When  Katy  was  so  near  the  enchanted  circle,  it  would  be 
death  to  be  obliged  to  withdraw.  Sophronia  considerately  pro 
tracted  her  stay  a  week  longer  than  she  had  at  first  meditated,  to 
mind  the  children,  and  do  some  "light  chores,"  to  facilitate  the 
preparations  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Skates  were  so  busy  and  so 
animated  in  making.  And  when  the  "things"  were  nearly  all 
removed  from  their  places,  and  packed  away  into  the  chambers, 
and  all  the  rooms  began  to  look  stripped  and  melancholy,  and  there 
began  to  be  gloomy  and  ill-omened  echoes  shooting  through  the 
unfurnished  apartments — echoes  that  would  croak  of  desolation, 
and  would  sometimes  strike  like  a  knell  on  James's  simple  heart  in 
spite  of  himself — in  spite  of  the  bustling  and  gleefulness  of  his 
triumphant  little  wife — in  spite  of  the  glare  of  Cousin  Sophronia's 
fancy  paintings,  which  she  took  care  to  hold  up  before  him  to  the 
very  last  moment  of  her  tarrying, — when  matters  were  in  such  a 
train,  and  she  had  given  the  unsophisticated  aspirants  all  necessary 
directions, — quite  a  catalogue,  by  the  way, — Cousin  Sophronia 
took  her  departure,  and  in  a  few  days  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Skates  were 
ready  to  follow. 

Mrs.  Skates  was  happy  as  a  queen  when  they  were  all  seated  in 
the  cars  going  to  the  city — the  city  at  last ! — and  when  the  coach 
drew  up  before  the  splendid  entrance  of  a  great  castle-like  hotel, 
and  the  servants  came  out  and  overwhelmed  them  with  attentions 
and  services,  and  conducted  them  in  as  if  they  were  indeed  the  Hon. 
Captain  Somebody  and  lady,  she  was  quite  bewildered  with  excite 
ment  and  triumph.  "  Let  my  neighbours  sneer  now  if  they  will," 
thought  Katy,  as  she  tossed  her  vain  little  head,  and  sat  down 
with  a  mixture  of  confusion,  diffidence,  and  complacency,  in  the 


MARIA  J.    B.   BROWNE.  265 

long,  brilliantly  illuminated,  and  magnificent  drawing-room.  Oh, 
such  a  gorgeous  carpet,  her  feet  fairly  sunk  in  its  plushy  softness, 
as  if  she  had  been  treading  on  a  bed  of  fresh  moss  !  Such  luxurious 
furniture ! — such  dazzling  lamps  and  mirrors  !  While  her  bewil 
dered  vision  was  struggling  to  take  in  all  this  grandeur  at  one 
grasp,  another  sense  carried  in  a  throb  of  bitter  mortification  to  her 
heart. 

"Name,  sir  ?"  said  a  servant  to  her  husband,  who  was  standing 
still  with  mouth  and  eyes  wide  open,  looking  about  him  in  amaze 
ment,  trying  to  collect  himself,  and  to  decide  whether  he  was  in 
the  body  or  out  of  the  body,  so  like  an  unreal  panorama  seemed  all 
that  was  around  him  to  his  simplicity.  "Name,  sir?"  politely 
repeated  the  servant,  his  face  looking  the  personation  of  a  subdued 
chuckle. 

"  Oh,  Squire  James  and  Miss  Skates !"  replied  Mr.  Skates  very 
audibly  ;  and  then,  on  second  thought,  as  if  something  of  the  most 
absolute  importance  had  been  forgotten,  he  added,  "  and  the  child 
ren,  too, — put  them  in." 

The  servant  retreated  instantly,  and  saved  himself  a  hemorrhage, 
perhaps,  by  indulging  his  overcharged  mirthfulness,  and  recorded 

on  the  book  of  arrivals  for  the  morning  paper,  " James,  Esq., 

and  Miss  Skates." 

Now  Mr.  Skates  had  been  instructed — specifically  instructed — 
to  say,  when  his  name  was  called  for  at  the  hotel,  "James  Skates, 
Esq.,  lady  and  children,"  but  his  mind  and  memory  were  topsy 
turvy  with  this  dashing  so  suddenly  into  gentility,  and  no  wonder 
he  could  not  concentrate  his  ideas  to  a  proper  focus.  Mrs.  Skates 
felt  badly  about  it,  for  she  feared  the  whole  city  would  be  misled 
when  they  came  to  read  it,  and  she  thought  best  to  have  the  mistake 
corrected ;  but  she  would  consult  Cousin  Sophronia.  By  the  time 
she  had  an  opportunity  to  consult  her  oracle,  however,  the  unfor 
tunate  edition  of  the  paper  had  gone  by,  and  everybody  in  the  world 
but  themselves  had  forgotten  the  announcement,  if,  indeed,  they 
ever  noticed  it. 

It  was  already  evening  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Skates  arrived; 
Katy  was  very  much  excited,  and  cruelly  exhausted — her  cheeks 

34 


266  MARIA  J.   B.   BROWNE. 

burned  like  a  fever,  and  her  arms  trembled  with  fatigue,  as  she 
tossed  the  baby  hither  and  thither  to  quiet  him,  and  alternately 
soothed  and  scolded  poor  little  terrified  James.  Mr.  Skates  indi 
cated,  as  soon  as  he  could  collect  his  recreant  faculties,  that  they 
would  like  to  engage  board  "  for  a  spell,  and  see  if  they  liked;" 
and  the  landlord,  whose  keen  eye  was  so  familiarly  educated  to  the 
mensuration  of  pretensions,  and  who  could  detect  at  a  glance  the 
spurious  from  the  genuine  coin,  after  some  demurring  and  some 
adroitly  directed  regrets  that  his  house  was  so  crowded  he  should 
not  be  able  to  accommodate  the  gentleman  for  a  few  days  as  well 
as  he  could  desire,  to  all  of  which  Mr.  Skates  obligingly  replied  "  it 
was  just  as  wal,"  he  ordered  a  servant  to  conduct  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Skates  to  No.  150  ! 

Oh  what  a  journey  it  wras,  superadded  to  the  day's  weariness,  to 
reach  No.  150,  and  through  what  a  labyrinth  of  endless  halls, 
walled  up  on  both  sides  by  rows  of  green  window-blind-looking 
doors  !  and  up,  up,  up  what  flights  and  flights  of  stairs,  and  round 
what  numbers  of  corners  !  Katy  felt  as  if  she  should  drop  down, 
and  Mr.  Skates,  whose  good  temper  outlasted  everything,  jocosely 
remarked  to  his  baggage-laden  conductor,  "  Wal,  sir,  if  it's  much 
further,  we'll  stop  in  somewhere  and  rest.  I  hope  when  you 
get  us  up  here  you'll  be  sure  to  come  and  show  us  the  way  out 
again !" 

Poor  Katy  was  sick  enough  by  the  time  she  reached  her  room ; 
and  as  she  entered  it,  her  thoughts  would  revert  to  her  own  bed 
chamber  at  the  cottage  home — vastly  larger  than  this  little  hot  "  six 
by  eight"  enclosure — so  pleasantly  and  commodiously  furnished, 
and  commanding  a  view  of  such  a  green  and  flowing  landscape  from 
its  windows ;  here  she  could  see  from  the  one  window,  she  knew 
not  what  it  was,  some  great  dark  object,  which  gradually  developed 
into  the  brick  wall  of  a  neighbouring  building,  and  that  bounded 
the  prospect.  But  she  was  too  ill  to  care  much  that  night, — her 
head  ached  violently,  and  spun  round  with  dizziness,  and  all  she 
could  do  was  just  to  go  to  bed,  sweltering  and  fainting,  and  leave 
the  charge  of  unrobing  and  quieting  the  children  to  her  husband. 
Mr.  Skates  thought  the  undertaking  too  hopeless  to  get  down  stairs 


MARIA   J.    B.    BROWNE.  267 

and  up  again  alone,  so  he  went  without  his  supper,  and  bathed 
Katy's  burning  forehead,  and  whistled  and  hummed  the  old  home 
lullabys  to  the  children,  till  all  were  uneasily  slumbering,  and  then, 
as  the  noise  in  the  streets  died  away,  all  but  the  occasional  rattle 
of  a  vehicle  on  the  pavement,  or  the  echoing  tramp  of  a  solitary 
foot -fall  breaking  in  on  the  midnight  hush  of  the  city,  and  the 
lamps  one  by  one  flickered  and  expired,  Mr.  Skates  too,  his  mind 
in  a  whirl,  and  his  purposes  and  expectations  all  misty  and  intan 
gible,  composed  himself  into  a  restless  and  half-watchful  repose. 
Even  that  was  broken  ever  and  anon,  by  a  sudden  scream  from  one 
or  both  of  the  children,  whose  sleep  itself  was  fritted  away  by  the 
stifling  heat  of  the  small,  close  room,  and  the  excitement  and  fatigue 
their  own  little  frames  were  suffering. 

But  they  all  rose  quite  as  vigorous  as  could  reasonably  be  anti 
cipated,  and  novelty  supplied  abundantly  the  stimulus  that  other 
wise  would  have  been  lacking.  Mrs.  Skates  was  somewhat  faint, 
and  felt  some  disagreeable  visitings  of  nausea  now  and  then,  but 
she  managed  with  her  husband's  good  offices,  in  matters  pertaining 
to  the  toilet,  to  get  herself  and  the  children  all  ready  in  full  dress 
for  breakfast,  some  minutes  before  it  was  announced.  When  the 
terrific  notes  of  the  gong — it  had  a  giant  voice — were  heard  peal 
ing  and  groaning  and  moaning  and  growling  and  howling  through 
the  long  empty  halls,  affrighting  the  very  echoes,  such  a  chorus  of 
unaffected  terror  as  issued  from  the  throats  of  the  two  young 
Skateses  was  appalling !  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Skates,  too,  were  startled 
and  alarmed,  and  thought  at  first  that  all  the  wild  beasts  in  the 
world  were  in  desperate  battle  just  outside  of  their  own  door,  and 
the  children  shrieked  as  if  every  sense  were  but  an  inlet  to  the  most 
excruciating  torture.  In  vain  did  papa  and  mamma  hush  and  hug 
and  soothe  and  threaten  after  the  cause  of  the  alarm  was  ascertained  ; 
every  measure  weighed  light  as  a  feather  in  the  balance  with  the 
fright  and  horror  they  experienced  at  the  sudden  acquaintanceship 
of  this  unearthly  noise.  The  poor  children  refused  to  be  comforted 
till  it  was  too  late  for  the  regular  breakfast,  so  Mr.  Skates,  lady 
and  children,  breakfasted  alone. 

Cousin  Sophronia  was  good  enough  to  come  quite  early,  and 


268  MARIA  J.   B.    BROWNE. 

spend  all  the  morning  with  Mrs.  Skates,  congratulating  her  on  hav 
ing  emerged  from  a  living  burial  in  the  country,  welcoming  her  to 
the  unutterable  delights  of  a  city  life,  and  giving  her  lessons  in 
gentility,  while  Mr.  Skates  went  out  into  the  street  to  look  up  some 
kind  of  "genteel  business;"  for  he  was  made  distinctly  to  under 
stand,  that  none  other  would  answer  his  purpose,  though  his  simple 
ideas  were  at  the  lowest  possible  ends  concerning  the  boundary 
lines  between  a  genteel  and  an  ungenteel  occupation.  But  Sophro- 
nia  assured  him  that  such  as  he  was  in  pursuit  of  was  "  plenty  as 
quails,"  and  he  supposed  it  must  be  of  course,  if  he  had  only  been 
sufficiently  acquainted  in  the  city  to  know  where  to  look  for  it. 
Everywhere  he  inquired  he  was  informed  by  the  industrious 
and  laborious  business  men,  that  "they  did  not  keep  the  article," 
and  he  came  to  his  hotel  from  his  unsuccessful  tour  quite  discou 
raged  and  disheartened.  But  he  was  soon  called  to  forget  his  ill 
success  in  obtaining  employment,  by  the  necessity  of  preparation 
for  dinner.  Cousin  Sophronia  had  apprised  Mrs.  Skates  that 
"  folks  did  not  dress  much  for  breakfast,  but  dinner  at  hotels  and 
fashionable  bordin'  houses"  was  a  great  affair,  and  conducted  with  a 
marvellous  display  of  state  and  ceremony — that  they  must  be 
dressed  in  their  very  best  and  gayest  clothes,  and  be  on  the  alert 
to  "  see  just  how  other  folks  did,"  or  coming  from  the  country  so 
fresh,  they  would  be  liable  to  some  gross  violations  of  dinner-table 
etiquette,  and  the  "folks  would  think  so  strange  of  it." 

Katy  felt  less  apprehension  for  her  own  ability  to  manage  than 
she  did  for  her  husband  and  children.  Mr.  Skates  was  mortally 
awkward,  there  was  no  disputing,  and  the  children  would  be  most 
likely  to  do  as  children  always  will — behave  worst  when  they  are 
put  upon  their  best  behaviour — cry  when  it  is  indispensable  they 
should  be  quiet, — seize  upon  things  they  should  let  alone,  and 
sometimes,  by  the  simplest  prattle,  uncover  family  secrets  it  takes 
the  practised  ingenuity  of  parents  to  conceal — the  plain-spoken 
little  wretches ! 

Mr.  Skates  was  sent  to  the  barber  to  get  himself  shaved  after 
the  most  approved  fashion,  and  then  he  was  trimmed  out  in  his  new 
suit  of  blue  broadcloth,  with  his  fancy  silk  vest  and  his  new  blue 


MARIA  J.   B.   BROWNE.  269 

and  white  plaid  neckerchief,  and  his  white  linen  handkerchief 
shaken  out  of  its  neat  folds,  and  stuffed  with  fashionable  careless 
ness  into  his  coat  pocket,  by  Sophronia's  own  competent  hands. 
Indeed,  he  looked  very  much  dressed  up,  and  you  would  hardly 
have  suspected  his  occupation  but  for  the  peculiar  stoop  in  the 
shoulders  craftsmen  of  his  calling  are  apt  to  acquire,  and  for  cer 
tain  dark-coloured  and  very  incorrigible  labour-lines  and  calluses 
on  his  hands,  which  perseveringly  resisted  all  the  influence  of  soap 
and  sand  which  could  be  brought  to  bear  upon  them.  Honourable 
labour-lines  and  calluses  they  were,  too ;  he  was  in  no  danger  of 
losing  the  good  opinion  and  respect  of  any  whose  respect  and  good 
opinion  were  worth  preserving,  for  these ;  he  might  be,  for  suffer 
ing  himself  to  be  persuaded  to  blush  for  them,  to  be  coaxed,  and 
not  very  reluctantly,  into  his  present  apish  and  incongruous 
transition ! 

Katy  Skates  robed  herself  in  her  new  changeable  silk,  flounced 
and  resetted  in  the  skirt,  and  decorated  about  the  low  neck  and 
short  sleeves  in  the  very  latest  style.  Her  hair  shone  and  waved 
and  curled  deliciously,  her  eyes  sparkled,  and  her  cheeks  glowed 
like  roses ;  and  if  she  had  been  going  to  figure  at  a  magnificent 
entertainment  on  some  great  and  special  occasion,  by  invitation  from 
an  affluent  host,  she  would  have  looked  not  only  suitably  but  beau 
tifully  habited ;  for  Mrs.  Skates  was  really  handsomer  in  person 
than  many  renowned  beauties  who  make  considerable  sensation  in 
the  world.  Moreover,  to  set  off  her  charms  still  more  effectually, 
Cousin  Sophronia — obliging  soul ! — had  been  so  good  as  to  loan 
Mrs.  Skates  a  very  gay  bracelet  and  brooch,  with  great  glaring, 
hot-looking  purple  stones  in  them,  and  a  chain  from  which  dangled 
a  gold  pencil.  And  when  these  were  all  fixed  on  in  their  places, 
and  Katy  looked  in  the  mirror  to  see  herself,  she  was  sensible  of  a 
glow  of  real  admiration,  and  her  little  vain  heart  swelled  with  pride 
and  satisfaction.  I  am  sorry  her  pride  and  satisfaction  had  no 
nobler  groundwork  to  base  themselves  upon  ! 

Mr.  Skates,  I  need  not  say,  admired  her  too,  and  could  hardly 
forbear  kissing  her,  as  if  he  were  a  lover,  or  she  a  bride. 

The  horrible  notes  of  the  gong  were  at  length  heard  grumbling 


270  MARIA  J.   B.    BROWNE. 

along  through  the  halls.  This  time  the  children  only  turned  pale, 
and  clung  closer  to  their  parents,  with  their  eyes  stretched  open, 
staring  wonderingly.  Mr.  Skates  carried  the  baby,  and  Mrs. 
Skates  led  James  and  hung  on  her  husband's  arm,  till,  with  a  crowd 
that  kept  swelling  all  the  way  from  "No.  150"  down,  they  found 
themselves  floating  into  the  spacious  dining-hall  of  the  hotel ;  and 
somehow,  they  hardly  realized  how,  they  were  seated  at  the  table. 
Everything  was  new  and  strange.  Mr.  Skates  innocently  stared 
at  the  services  and  ceremonies  he  could  not  understand,  and  Mrs. 
Skates  increased  and  made  manifest  her  confusion,  by  trying  to 
appear  at  ease,  and  accustomed  to  it  all.  The  "great  towel"  laid 
by  his  plate  Mr.  Skates  had  no  use  for,  with  a  good  white  hand 
kerchief  in  his  pocket,  so  he  "doubled  it  up,"  and  put  it  behind 
him,  to  keep  it  out  of  little  James's  hands. 

That  hopeful  young  "  scion"  opened  the  table  scene  by  being 
vastly  troublesome.  He  refused  to  be  seated  on  his  father's  knee, 
and  clamoured  bravely  for  his  "  high  chair."  Mr.  Skates's  argu 
ments  for  some  time  were  of  no  avail,  but  at  length  he  succeeded 
in  persuading  his  small  but  resolute  antagonist  that  "  they  did  not 
have  high  chairs  here  in  the  city,"  and  he  must  either  be  good,  or 
be  sent  to  No.  150  to  stay  alone.  James  surrendered  ;  but  as  soon 
as  he  was  fairly  settled  in  his  place,  and  had  looked  a  long  inquisi 
tive  stare  into  the  faces  of  the  company  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
table,  he  seized  a  silver  fork  that  lay  by  his  father's  plate,  and 
began  raking  it  over  his  cheeks  and  his  protruded  tongue. 

"  What's  this,  pa  ?  what's  this  thing  ?"  he  inquired,  holding  it 
still  more  fast,  while  his  father  attempted  to  take  it  out  of  his 
determined  grasp. 

"  You  mustn't  meddle  with  it — let  it  alone,  James.  It  looks 
some  like  a  spoon !"  replied  Mr.  Skates,  forcing  it  away  from  the 
little  hand,  and  laying  it  down  on  the  cloth.  But  James,  with  the 
children's  universal  license  to  misbehave  on  the  most  important 
occasions,  instantly  took  it  up  again,  and  began  ringing  the  elegant 
champagne  glass  which  a  servant  that  moment  presented  to  a  gen 
tleman  who  sat  next. 


MARIA   J.    B.    BROWNE.  271 

"  We  han't  got  no  such  'poons  to  home,  have  we,  pa  ?"  interro 
gated  the  youngster. 

"  Ah,  James  !"  interrupted  Mrs.  Skates,  who  had  had  more  than 
she  could  do  thus  far  to  keep  her  borrowed  finery  out  of  the  hands 
and  mouth  of  the  astonished  baby,  "  Ah,  James ;  what  did  I  tell 
you?" 

"  You  said  you  should  trounce  me  if  I  wasn't  still,"  confessed 
the  child,  rapping  his  head  with  the  fork,  and  making  it  do  the 
service  of  a  comb  in  frizzling  up  his  nicely-smoothed  hair.  But 
the  memory  of  the  threat  silenced  him  for  a  few  minutes,  while  a 
fiery-red  blush  of  three-fold  mortification,  suffused  the  before  glow 
ing  cheeks  of  his  exasperated  mamma — mortification  that  her  son 
had  exposed  his  ignorance  of  the  purposes  for  which  silver  forks 
are  used — that  he  should  disclose  so  publicly,  and  without  remorse, 
the  unfortunate  and  disgraceful  fact  that  he  was  a  stranger  to  such 
luxuries  at  home,  and  lastly,  that  he  should  be  so  explicit  in  his 
delineation  of  her  peculiar  mode  of  family  discipline  ! 

But  Mrs.  Skates's  cheeks  tingled  worse  and  worse,  and  her  fore 
head  burned  hotter  and  hotter,  when  she  heard  her  unsophisticated 
spouse  remark  to  a  waiter  who  handed  him  a  well-filled  plate, 

"  Thank'ee,  thank'ee,  sir,  but  you've  loaded  'most  too  heavy  of 
that ;  I  can't  eat  all  this  and  taste  of  all  them  other  sorts,  too.  I 
see  you've  got  lots  back  there  yet!"  Mrs.  Skates  set  her  satin 
slipper  hard  down  on  Mr.  Skates's  boot,  under  the  table,  telegraph 
ing  that  he  was  guilty  of  something,  he  hardly  knew  what ;  but  it 
made  him  silent,  and  left  her  to  blush  and  flutter  at  the  impertinent 
smile  she  saw  running  from  lip  to  lip  on  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
— a  cruel  but  very  common  way  of  exposing  the  real  vulgarity  and 
grossness  of  mind  which  would  pass  itself  for  high  breeding,  and  a 
contempt  for  what,  by  a  kind  of  false  comparison,  appears  unrefined 
or  uncultivated  in  the  manners  of  others. 

Little  James  by  this  time  had  recovered  from  the  shock  he  had 
experienced  from  the  recollection  of  what  was  in  store  for  him,  if 
he  "  wasn't  still,"  and  he  found  his  curiosity  was  by  no  means 
satisfied  concerning  the  new  things  that  were  about  him.  He  pro- 


272  MARIA   J.    B.    BROWNE. 

ceeded  with  his  investigation  by  seizing  a  "bill  of  fare,"  which  the 
nearest  neighbour  had  just  laid  down. 

"What's  this,  pa?"  he  inquired,  bringing  the  smooth,  clean 
paper  into  contact  with  his  greasy  mouth.  It  was  a  fixed  habit  of 
Master  James's  this,  of  introducing  everything  to  the  acquaint 
anceship  of  his  facial  orifice,  whether  said  orifice  was  in  receiving 
order  or  not. 

"  I  do'  know,  child ;  let  it  alone,  and  hand  it  right  straight  back 
to  the  gentleman — it's  his'n,"  replied  Mr.  Skates,  getting  not  a 
little  impatient  at  his  son's  inquisitiveness. 

"But  what  is  it,  pa?"  persisted  James,  pouting  and  scowling 
that  the  dawning  of  his  curiosity  should  be  so  cruelly  repressed. 

"I  do'  know,  I  tell  you ;  it  looks  like  a  little  newspaper  about 
vittles.  Now  hold  your  tongue  !"  retorted  Mr.  Skates,  as  he  took 
the  soiled  paper  out  of  James's  hand,  and  administered  a  box  on 
his  ear  sufficiently  expressive  to  set  him  snivelling. 

This  scene  of  course  added  to  the  amusement  of  the  gay  young 
people  across  the  table.  They  discoursed  very  audibly  about 
"Jonathans,"  and  "bumpkins,"  and  "country  animals,"  and  one 
young  woman,  more  bold  and  vulgar-souled  and  ill-bred  than  her 
companions,  though  her  face  was  royally  beautiful,  and  her  voice 
as  soft  and  sweet  as  the  song  of  a  siren,  and  her  diction,  even  in 
rude  sarcasm,  as  polished  and  musical  as  the  diction  of  an  orator, 
called  quite  aloud,  "  Waiter,  do  give  me  that  little  newspaper  about 
vittles  !"  Her  party  joined  in  the  joke  with  boisterous  merriment, 
and  poor  Katy,  instead  of  feeling  honest  contempt,  rejoiced  that 
her  baby  screamed  just  then,  for  even  an  uncomfortable  and  annoy 
ing  circumstance  relieved  the  bitter  confusion  of  a  consciousness 
that  she  and  her  well-meaning  husband  were  the  unfortunate  objects 
of  such  unprincipled  ridicule. 

"  That's  what  we  call  a  bill  of  fare,  mum,  not  a  newspaper," 
replied  the  waiter,  obsequiously,  placing  the  paper  in  her  fair  hand. 

"  Oh,  I  understand,  sir !"  retorted  the  disconcerted  beauty,  a 
flush  of  indignation  mounting  to  her  very  temples,  that  a  servant 
should  dare  to  presume  her  ignorant ;  "  your  explanation  is  unne 
cessary,  quite;"  but  before  she  could  deliver  the  rebuke  she  medi- 


MARIA  J.    B.   BROWNE.  273 

tated,  the  offending  waiter  was  out  of  hearing  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hall. 

Mrs.  Skates  now  began  to  hope  that  her  sufferings  for  this  once 
were  at  an  end,  but  scarcely  was  the  baby  quieted,  when  James 
caught  hold  of  the  chain  that  depended  from  his  mother's  neck,  and 
inquired  with  the  most  provoking  innocence,  "  Whose  is  this,  ma  ? 
'Taint  yours,  is  it?  Cousin  Throny  lent  it  to  you;  didn't  she,  ma?" 

"  Sh-h-h,  James  !"  fretted  Mrs.  Skates.  I  think  at  that  moment 
she  would  have  enjoyed  the  "trouncing  business"  right  heartily! 
It  was  too  vexatious  that  he  should  expose  what  one  felt  the  keen 
est  anxiety  to  conceal — the  fact  that  she  was  really  glittering  in 
•'borrowed  plumage  !" 

"  Shall  you  whip  me,  ma?"  pursued  the  little  wretch,  taking 
alarm  from  his  mother's  severe  expression,  and  cowering  down  in 
the  chair  behind  his  father,  where  he  had  been  standing ;  while 
that  uncomfortable  and  embarrassed  worthy  was  trying  to  clear  his 
plate  of  its  contents,  and  at  the  same  time  working  industriously 
to  keep  the  perspiration  from  streaming  in  rivulets  over  his  face. 
James  managed  to  entertain  himself  in  his  new  situation  with  his 
own  perpetual  chatter,  and  with  scratching  the  chair  with  his  fork, 
till  the  meal  was  finished.  Oh,  how  glad  were  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Skates  when  that  event  happened  !  Poor  Katy  felt  that  her  little 
No.  150  would  be  an  asylum,  indeed,  she  was  so  thoroughly  dis 
concerted  ;  and  Mr.  Skates  felt  that  he  should  never  desire  to  dine 
again  as  long  as  he  lived !  Visions  of  his  own  quiet  and  social 
table  at  the  forsaken  home  danced  through  his  mind  with  a  kind 
of  tantalizing  mockery ;  and  then  the  precious  absence  of  ceremony 
there  !  Sick,  indeed,  he  was  of  so  much  ceremony,  that  "  he  didn't 
know  nothing  what  they  meant  by!"  He  would  have  relished 
Katy's  very  poorest  "washing-day  hash,"  done  up  in  "pot-skim 
mings,"  a  thousand  times  better  than  those  elaborately  served 
viands,  and  their  multitude  of  French  gastronomic  accompaniments, 
and  "feel  so  all  shook-up  in  his  mind,"  as  he  declared  he  had  done 
at  this  first  city  dinner. 

35 


ELIZABETH   BOGART. 


Miss  BOGART  has  written  only  a  few  tales  in  prose,  but  they  have  all 
been  of  sterling  excellence. 

Her  first  tale,  "  The  Effect  of  a  Single  Folly,"  obtained  a  prize  in  the 
"Memorial,"  an  Annual  published  in  Boston,  1828.  It  was  her  first 
attempt  at  story  writing,  and  was  completed  and  sent  secretly,  without 
being  submitted  to  any  of  her  friends  for  correction  or  improvement.  In 
the  course  of  a  few  months  afterward,  she  received  a  copy  of  the  book 
from  the  publishers,  and  found,  to  her  surprise,  that  she  had  been  suc 
cessful  in  obtaining  one  of  the  two  prizes  offered.  From  that  circumstance, 
she  was  induced  to  write  occasional  tales  for  her  own  amusement,  and 
convey  them  through  the  medium  of  different  periodicals  to  the  public. 
In  1830  she  obtained  a  second  prize  for  a  tale  entitled  "  The  Forged 
Note;"  in  1844  another,  for  a  domestic  story,  entitled  "Arlington  House;" 
and  in  1849  the  fourth,  for  "The  Heiress,  or  Romance  of  Life."* 

She  has  written  much  more  poetry  than  prose.  The  history  of  her 
mind  in  this  respect  is  sketched  with  much  beauty  and  simplicity  in  the 
following  extract  from  a  letter  in  reply  to  one  making  inquiries  on  this 
point.  "  My  rhyming  propensity,"  says  she,  "  commenced,  I  believe,  with 
my  earliest  powers  of  thought,  as  I  remember  nothing  previous  to  my  first 
attempts  at  scribbling  verses ;  but  those  youthful  productions  were  inva 
riably  destroyed  from  a  feeling  of  diffidence,  and  an  utter  impossibility 
of  satisfying  myself.  My  ideas  of  excellence  in  metrical  composition,  so 

*  The  titles  of  her  other  stories  are  as  follows  :  "  The  Secrets  of  the  Heart," 
1828;  "The  Cloaked  Gentleman,"  1829;  "  Decourcy,"  1829;  "The  Family  of 
Meredith,"  1830;  "  Traditions  of  the  Visions  of  Armies  in  the  Heavens,"  1844: 
"The  Bachelor's  Wedding,"  1846;  "  Gertrude  Wurtemburg,"  1848;  "Love  and 
Politics,"  1849  ;  "Rose  Winters,"  1849;  "  The  Widow's  Daughter,"  1851 ;  "The 
Auction,  or  the  Wedding  Coat/'  and  "Ada  Danforth,  or  the  Will,"  not  yet  pub 
lished. 

(274) 


ELIZABETH    BOGART.  275 

far  exceeded  my  own  efforts,  that  I  was  frequently  tempted  to  give  up  the 
Muse  in  despair,  and  probably  I  would  have  done  so,  had  not  the  poetic 
passion  been  too  strongly  implanted  in  my  nature.  The  indulgence  of 
this  love  for  embodying  my  thoughts  and  feelings  in  verse,  was  the  happi 
ness  of  my  life.  It  was  often  cherished  in  the  place  of  friends  or  lovers. 
It  was  my  resource  in  solitude,  my  consolation  in  trials,  my  reward  for 
disappointments,  my  relief  in  weariness,  my  recreation  in  idleness,  and  my 
delight  in  every  change  of  residence,  by  which  new  scenes  and  scenery 
have  been  presented  to  my  view/' 

Miss  Bogart  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  which  was  also  the 
birth-place  of  her  father  and  his  ancestors  for  several  generations  back. 
They  are  descended  on  the  paternal  side  from  the  Huguenots  who  fled  to 
Holland  after  the  revocation  of  the  edict  of  Nantz,  and  emigrated  from 
Holland  to  America. 

Her  father  was  the  Rev.  David  Schuyler  Bogart,  a  graduate  of  Colum 
bia  College,  and  a  minister  of  the  gospel.  In  his  profession,  he  was 
highly  respected  and  esteemed,  and  exceedingly  beloved  by  the  people  of 
his  charge.  Soon  after  entering  on  his  profession  he  accepted  a  call  to  a 
Presbyterian  church  at  Southampton,  an  isolated  town,  on  the  eastern  part 
of  Long  Island,  where  he  resided  for  fifteen  years.  There,  in  the  village 
school-house,  Miss  Bogart  received  all  her  education,  excepting  what  was 
given  her  by  her  father,  whose  instructions  were  continued  even  to  the 
close  of  his  life.  From  Southampton  they  removed,  in  1813,  to  Hemp- 
stead  Harbour,  a  wild  and  lovely  spot,  some  eighty  miles  further  west,  and 
on  the  north  side  of  the  island. 

"  The  scenery  of  the  two  places/'  says  Miss  Bogart,  in  the  letter  already 
quoted,  "presented  a  perfect  contrast.  The  country  at  Southampton  was 
entirely  level,  and  the  town  situated  immediately  on  the  Atlantic,  within 
sight  of  its  foaming  surf,  and  sound  of  its  ceaseless  roar — while  Hemp- 
stead  Harbour  was  located  at  the  head  of  a  beautiful  bay  running  in  from 
the  Long  Island  Sound,  and  surrounded  with  high  hills,  covered  with 
forest  trees  and  evergreens.  It  was  truly  a  place  to  charm  the  eye,  and 
enrich  the  imagination ;  and  thus  it  was,  that  while  my  first  love  was  for 
the  grand  and  magnificent  ocean,  my  second  was  for  the  more  fascinating 
and  picturesque  beauty  of  nature's  scenery;  amid  which  the  early  romance 
of  my  disposition  was  nurtured  into  an  enduring  character.  The  name 
of  the  little  village  of  Hempstead  Harbour  has  since  been  changed  to  that 
of  Roslyn,  but  it  seems  to  me  an  unmeaning  appellation,  and  no  improve 
ment  ;  although  it  will  doubtless  receive  an  eclat  from  the  fact  of  our 
poet  Bryant  having  fixed  his  residence  there. 

"  It  was  from  my  home  in  that  place,  in  1825,  that  I  sent  forth  my 
first  poem,  simply  headed  i  Stanzas/  on  a  venture  to  the  press.  It  was 
published  in  the  'Long  Island  Star/  under  the  signature  of  'Adelaide/ 
and  made  the  subject  of  a  complimentary  poetical  address  in  the  same 


276  ELIZABETH    BOG  ART. 

paper.  I  soon  afterward  commenced  writing  for  '  The  New  York  Mirror/ 
which  was  at  that  time  in  its  most  flourishing  state,  under  the  able 
management  of  its  proprietor,  George  P.  Morris.  My  signature  was  then 
changed  to  that  of  '  Estelle/  a  nom  de  plume,  which  I  have  ever  since 
retained ;  and  which,  before  my  real  name  was  known,  procured  me  a 
poetical  correspondent  in  the  f  Mirror/  the  history  of  which  is  quite  a 
little  romance.  The  correspondence  was  carried  on  at  intervals,  for  nearly 
four  years ;  the  writer  being  all  the  while  utterly  unknown  to  me,  except 
ing  inasmuch  as  his  poems  declared  him  to  be  a  gentleman  of  taste,  talent, 
and  education.  He  had  mistaken  me  for  another  person,  and  notwith 
standing  my  repeated  denials  of  the  identity,  he  persisted  in  addressing 
me  as  the  i  Estelle'  of  his  love,  whose  name  I  had  unwittingly  stolen.  My 
curiosity  became  at  length  considerably  excited,  but  he  maintained  his 
incognito ;  and  it  was  not  until  several  years  after  he  had  ceased  writing, 
that  I  accidentally  learned  his  name,  and  that  by  means  of  Ms  initials, 
and  the  signature  of  '  Estelle'  to  the  pieces  passing  between  us  in  the 
1  Mirror/  he  had  recovered  his  true  ladye  love,  and  married  her." 

Miss  Bogart  was  particularly  fond  of  these  little  literary  mysteries. 
They  amused  and  interested  her,  and  gave  her  both  subject  and  occupa 
tion.  In  the  country  she  had  always  leisure,  as  well  as  love  for  the  Muses. 
"  Without  this  love/'  says  she,  "  my  life  would  have  been  divested  of 
half  its  pleasures ;  and  without  the  leisure  to  indulge  it,  I  think  I  should 
have  felt  as  if  time,  however  otherwise  employed,  were  only  wasted." 
Her  fugitive  poems  have  now  accumulated  to  a  number  sufficient  to  fill  a 
large  volume,  although  they  have  never  been  collected  and  prepared  for 
publication  in  that  form. 

In  1826  her  father  removed,  with  his  family,  into  the  city  of  New 
York,  where  he  continued  to  reside  during  the  remainder  of  his  life. 
Miss  Bogart  lives  there  still. 

The  first  of  the  extracts  which  follow,  is  from  "  The  Forged  Note." 
It  is  a  description  of  Arthur  Mowbray,  the  hero  of  the  "  tale,"  given  from 
the  impression  which  the  author,  while  a  child,  had  received  from  seeing 
him.  He  had  been  a  country  boy,  born  and  educated  in  humble  life,  and 
the  history  of  his  school  days  is  first  told. 


ARTHUR  MOWBRAY. 

IT  was  years  after  that  period,  that  Arthur  Mowbraj  came  to 
my  father's  house,  a  travelled  and  polished  gentleman.  The  rus 
ticity  of  country  manners  was  entirely  obliterated.  Not  a  word  or 
action  betrayed  his  early  habits,  and  those  who  knew  him  not  would 
never  have  suspected  his  humble  parentage.  The  grace  and  ease 


ELIZABETH   BOGART.  277 

of  his  behaviour  made  an  impression  on  my  childish  fancy ;  and 
though  then  incapable  of  judging  of  character  or  talent,  I  listened 
to  his  fluent  and  fascinating  conversation  with  wonder  and  delight. 
He  was  indeed  a  young  man  of  most  astonishing  powers.  His 
Proteus  mind  assumed  a  thousand  different  shapes,  from  its  inex 
haustible  store  of  knowledge,  observation,  and  uncommon  originality. 
The  current  of  his  ideas  never  ceased  to  flow  for  an  instant ;  and 
what  was  more  remarkable,  they  passed  over  nothing  in  their 
course  without  adding  a  new  touch  of  brilliancy,  beauty,  or  vigour. 
No  subject  escaped  his  attention,  nor  was  beyond  his  mastery.  His 
giant  intellect  grasped  the  whole  range  of  literature  and  science, 
and  held  them  as  nothing  in  its  strength :  and  while  others  were 
seeking  with  weary  labour  their  hidden  treasures,  he  drew  forth 
the  pearls  from  their  unfathomed  depths,  and  cast  them  around  him 
with  an  unsparing  hand.  His  face  and  figure  were  eminently  hand 
some  ;  but  the  expression  of  his  eyes  I  have  never  forgotten.  It 
was  wily,  dark,  and  unstable.  His  sudden  glance  was  like  the 
lightning  flash,  which  carries  with  it  an  involuntary  thrill  of  fear. 
It  told  that  the  heart  was  not  right.  The  seeds  of  vice  had  fallen 
promiscuously  on  its  prolific  soil,  and  choked,  in  their  wild  luxu 
riance,  the  early  growth  of  virtue.  * 
[This  character  is  justified  by  his  after-course  in  life.  He  is  con 
victed  of  forgery,  and  sentenced  to  the  State  Prison,  from  which 
"durance  vile"  he  is  released  after  three  years,  by  a  pardon  from 
the  Governor.]  It  was  a  bright  and  beautiful  morning,  when  the 
bars  were  removed,  and  the  bolts  withdrawn  from  his  prison  doors ; 
and  he  came  forth  from  the  gloomy  and  frowning  edifice,  a  solitary 
being  in  the  midst  of  a  gay  and  populous  city.  The  clear  heavens, 
and  the  bright  earth,  and  the  varied  objects  which  met  his  eager 
gaze,  yielded  him  no  thought  of  pleasure ; 

"  For  bitter  shame  had  spoiled  the  sweet  world's  taste." 

He  knew  that  he  could  have  no  communion  with  those  whom  he 
had  once  known :  and  as  he  wandered  on  among  the  multitude  of 
busy  and  happy  faces,  he  experienced  a  feeling  of  hatred  to  man 
kind,  mingled  with  a  sense  of  desolation  more  withering  to  his 


278  ELIZABETH    BOGART. 

heart  than  even  the  dreary  and  hopeless  solitude  of  his  prison  cell. 
In  the  bitterness  of  his  soul  he  cursed  himself  and  his  destiny. 
True,  he  was  again  free  to  walk  the  earth,  and  look  upon  his  fellow- 
men  ;  but  Cain-like,  he  was  cast  out  as  a  fugitive  and  vagabond 
from  among  them.  The  mark  of  disgrace  was  set  upon  him. 
The  stain  of  guilt  and  ignominy  could  never  more  be  wiped  from 
his  name;  and  he  saw  himself  cut  off  from  that  part  of  society 
which  nature  and  education  had  fitted  him  to  enjoy.  His  former 
visions  of  greatness  could  return  to  him  no  more;  and  with 
the  terrible  consciousness  of  his  irretrievable  fall,  his  heart 
became  hardened,  and  his  conscience  callous  to  the  stings  of 
reproach. 

[He  was  subsequently  convicted  of  a  similar  crime  in  another 
State,  and  fated  to  die  at  last  in  a  prison.  A  fragment  of  his 
history  is  given,  as  having  been  written  by  himself  in  his  cell, 
in  which  he  says,]  "  I  know  no  dates  for  time.  The  days,  and 
weeks,  and  months,  are  all  alike  to  me.  There  is  but  one 
thought  in  my  bosom  continually,  from  the  rising  to  the  setting 
of  the  sun ;  and  it  gnaws  with  ceaseless  and  corroding  power 
on  my  heart.  The  tormenting  thought  that  I  am  always  in 
one  place — that  I  cannot  move  beyond  a  certain  limit,  and  that 
here  I  must  remain  until  death  closes  my  disgraceful  career. 
My  glass  is  nearly  run,  and  I  rejoice  at  it;  although  I  ought 
now  to  have  been  in  the  very  prime  of  manhood:  but  my  con 
stitution  has  given  way  to  the  midnight  revel,  and  the  unna 
tural  excitement  of  the  gaming  table.  The  inebriating  bottle 
has  mingled  its  deadly  poison  in  my  blood;  gray  hairs  have 
scattered  an  untimely  frost  upon  my  head ;  and  the  life  of  man 
already  appears  to  me  like  a  little  speck  in  the  ocean  of  eter 
nity.  Eternity!  No — there  is  no  eternity!  I  believe  it  not! 
I  am  a  renegade  from  the  faith  of  my  fathers !  I  have  laughed 
at  all  religion,  and  derided  the  idle  terrors  of  a  hell,  as  the 
mere  bugbear  of  canting  hypocrites.  Why,  then,  did  I  speak 
of  eternity?  We  die,  are  laid  in  the  grave,  and  are  as  if  we 

had  never  been Even  now,  my  brain  is  on  fire.     Reason 

totters.     Philosophy  trembles — and  I  sink — am  lost."      *      *      * 


ELIZABETH  BOGART.  279 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

THERE  are,  perhaps,  no  scenes  which  make  so  strong  an  impres 
sion  on  the  mind,  as  those  with  which  our  early  recollections  are 
associated.  Other  things  may  pass  from  the  memory,  and  be  lost 
amid  the  vicissitudes  of  the  world ;  but  these  will  still  recur  at  in 
tervals,  as  some  wandering  thought  or  truant  feeling  comes  home 
to  the  heart.  In  such  moments,  I  have  frequently  felt  a  strong 
and  irrepressible  desire  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  my  childhood ;  and 
it  was  with  mingled  emotions  of  pleasure  and  impatience  that  I  at 
length  prepared  for  the  journey.  Every  spot  was  familiar  to  my 
imagination,  and  I  even  fancied  on  the  way,  that  I  could  already 
hear  the  voices  of  welcome,  and  that  I  possessed  the  sight  of  Lyn- 
ceus  to  look  through  the  distant  space.  It  was  at  the  close  of  a 
summer  afternoon  that  we  arrived  at  the  place  of  our  destination. 
The  sun  was  setting  in  full  splendour  over  the  same  local  scenes 
which  were  engraven  on  the  first  page  of  my  memory,  and  the 
changing  hues  of  the  clouds  reminded  me  of  those  hours  when  I 
delighted  to  watch  them  till  their  gorgeous  colours  were  lost  in 
darkness.  The  moon  looked  down  with  bright,  unaltered  face,  on 
the  same  green  fields  and  clear  waters,  and  the  stars  peeped  out 
from  their  hidden  worlds,  as  if  to  return  my  gaze  of  recognition. 
There  was  a  kind  of  imaginary  happiness  connected  with  real  ob 
jects  in  my  mind,  as  I  walked  through  the  quiet  town.  The  little 
school-house  where  I  was  first  taught  the  pleasant  use  of  my  pen, 
and  the  perplexing  mysteries  of  figures,  brought  back  many  remi 
niscences  both  ludicrous  and  interesting.  The  idea  of  the  ingeni 
ous  and  burlesque  punishments,  invented  by  our  benevolent  and 
good-natured  teacher,  for  his  mischievous,  unruly  boys,  occasioned 
an  involuntary  burst  of  laughter,  and  the  images  of  "Lew," 
"Tom,"  and  "Bob,"  with  their  inked  hands  and  shamed  faces, 
seemed  instantly  to  rise  before  me,  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 
The  question,  Where  is  now  our  indulgent  and  beloved  preceptor  ? 
darted  across  my  mind,  and  I  felt  a  pang  of  self-reproach,  as  I 
turned  my  eyes  to  the  grave-yard,  and  remembered  that  he  "rested 
from  his  labours,"  in  the  silent  tomb. 


JANE  ELIZABETH  LARCOMBE. 


Miss  LARCOMBE  has,  within  the  last  three  years,  won  an  honourable 
place  among  the  magazinists  of  the  country.  Her  tales  are  sprightly  and 
piquant,  and  show  a  degree  of  originality  and  a  fertility  of  invention, 
which  augur  well  for  her  future  and  more  elaborate  efforts.  Her  stories 
thus  far  have  appeared  in  NeaPs  Gazette,  G-odey,  Peterson,  Sartain,  as 
well  as  in  the  Annuals,  and  all  under  the  assumed  name  of  "  Kate 
Campbell."  She  is  at  present  engaged  as  a  regular  contributor  to  some 
of  the  religious  periodicals  of  the  church  to  which  she  belongs — the 
Baptist. 

Miss  Larcombe  was  born  January  13, 1829,  at  Colebrook,  Connecticut. 
The  family  removed  in  1831  to  Danbury,  Connecticut;  in  1834,  to  Sau- 
gerties,  New  York;  and  in  1835,  to  Philadelphia,  where  they  still  reside. 
She  is  descended,  on  the  mother's  side,  of  a  Scottish  family,  staunch  cove 
nanters.  Her  father,  who  was  a  clergyman,  and  who,  in  the  latter  part 
of  his  life,  was  chaplain  to  the  Eastern  Penitentiary  of  Pennsylvania,  was 
of  French  descent,  from  the  Waldenses  of  Piedmont.  The  family  left 
France  at  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  and  settled  in  Bristol, 
England,  and  thence  emigrated  to  Hartford,  Connecticut. 

THOUGHTS  BY  THE  WAYSIDE. 

A  SUMMER  twilight !  who  enjoys  it  ?  or  rather,  who  can  resist 
the  magnetism  which  draws  one  to  the  open  window,  beneath  which 
the  leaves  of  the  trees  tremble  in  the  quiet  air,  while  the  Heaven 
above  lies  so  hushed  and  smiling,  with  a  calmness  as  though  it  had 
been  shedding  tears,  and,  worn  and  exhausted,  could  do  nought  but 
smile  languidly  on  the  broad,  sinful  earth  ? 

(280) 


JANE   ELIZABETH   LARCOMBE.  281 

Yet  we  can  remember,  when  a  little  child,  thinking  the  twilight 
hour  the  gloomiest  of  the  twenty-four — a  dark  spirit  commanding 
us  to  give  up  work  or  play,  and  loiter  restlessly  around  the  house, 
till  the  first  welcome  glimmer  of  a  light  released  us  from  its  dismal 
thraldom.  It  seemed  to  us  the  most  particularly  unpleasant 
arrangement  of  nature  to  be  conceived,  and  often  and  often  did  we 
wonder  ourself  stupid,  trying  to  solve  the  phenomenon. 

It  was  equally  puzzling  to  see  with  what  a  spirit  of  enjoyment 
the  "old  folks"  settled  themselves  comfortably  in  their  easy  chairs, 
and  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  fading  heavens,  seemed  soaring  away 
from  earthly  cares  and  joys.  Instinctively  we  felt  that  mirth  and 
mischief  must  be  postponed  to  a  more  convenient  season. 

When  we  grew  older,  wise  enough  to  contrive,  we  got  along  much 
better ;  the  gathering  gloom  of  evening  was  the  signal  for  a  general 
muster ;  out  we  flew  from  the  quiet  parlour  to  the  dim  hall  and 
passages,  where,  with  stifled  shouts  and  shrieks  of  mysterious  mer 
riment,  we  indulged  in  all  the  excitement  of  a  game  at  hide  and 
seek,  or,  when  tired  out,  gathered  in  a  compact  knot  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  and  with  elbows  on  our  knees,  heads  supported  by  our 
hands,  and  eyes  widely  dilated,  listened  to  the  delicious  horrors  of 
some  marvellous  tale  of  ghost  or  ogre.  Such  stories  !  no  one  else 
ever  dreamed  of  such  delights !  Such  giants  as  we  had !  such 
fairies  !  such  a  quantity  of  winding-sheets  as  our  favourite  narrator 
provided  for  us ! — our  brother,  with  his  wide,  smiling  mouth,  and 
glistening  teeth !  We  can  see  him  now,  his  rosy  face  ever  in  a 
perpetual  grin,  even  while  skilfully  depicting  scenes  which  made 
"  each  individual  hair  to  stand  on  end"  among  his  entranced  audi 
ence  !  Our  brother  ! — "  gone,  but  not  lost." 

Sometimes,  too,  of  a  winter's  evening,  we  found  our  way  into 
the  warm,  bright,  cozy  kitchen,  bringing  our  noise  and  mirth  with 
us,  which  was  speedily  quelled,  however,  through  the  influence  of 
the  presiding  spirit  of  the  place — a  tidy,  thrifty  servant  girl,  who 
loved  us  all  dearly — troublesome  as  we  were — and  who,  despite  her 
unattractive  appearance,  stole  a  place  for  herself  in  our  kind 
memories.  She  was  an  Irish  girl,  with  features  strongly  marked 

36 


282  JANE    ELIZABETH    LARCOMBE. 

with  small-pox,  and  a  most  disastrous  hump  between  her  shoulders ; 
short  in  person,  somewhat  short  in  speech,  but  withal,  the  kindest 
heart  that  ever  beat !  Dearly  did  she  love  to  gather  the  unruly 
crowd  of  boys  and  girls  around  her  glowing,  social  fire,  and  hush 
them  to  a  grave-like  stillness  with  the  wild  legends  of  her  native 
isle. 

Ah,  well !  those  days  have  passed  and  gone  now,  for  ever. 
We  can  only  sit  quietly  by  the  open  window  and  think  of  the 
"now,  and  what  has  been,"  and  remember  with  a  blending  of  the 
mirthful  and  sorrowful — a  kind  of  comic  sadness — how  we  grew  out 
of  those  pleasant  ways  ;  how  our  first  influx  of  sentimentalism  crept 
in  about  the  time  we  put  up  our  "  elf-locks  wildly  floating,"  and 
imbibed  a  strong  disgust  for  long-sleeved  checked  aprons ;  how  we 
took  to  reading  newspaper  poetry,  descriptive  of  the  "  shining 
stars"  and  "silver  moon,"  and  naturally  enough,  went  from  that 
to  looking  in  the  gray  heavens  for  them ;  how  we  laid  aside  the 
favourite  book,  smoothed  down  the  folds  of  our  dress,  and  seated 
ourself  methodically  at  the  window,  vis-d-vis  to  our  mother,  and 
gazed  perseveringly  at  the  steadfast  skies,  persuading  ourself  that 
we  were  immeasurably  happy,  while  all  the  time,  had  we  listened 
to  the  heart's  truth,  tears  would  have  been  dropping  for  the  good 
old  times — the  "joyous  days  of  yore" — with  the  romp  in  the  hall, 
the  blazing  kitchen  fire,  the  hump-backed  servant  girl,  and  the 
merry  playmates,  now  slumbering  beneath  the  sod. 

So,  after  all,  it  took  Time,  patient  teacher,  to  instil  a  full  appre 
ciation  of  the  delights  of  twilight.  Time  brought  the  thousand 
things  which  make  at  once  the  charm  and  the  sadness  of  that  mys 
tic  hour ; — the  fleeting,  intangible  Past,  the  ideal  hues  which  form 
a  fairy  halo  round  the  most  common-place  occurrences ;  the  real 
Present,  contrasting  vividly  with  the  buried  life ;  the  last  friends 
beyond  the  skies  to  draw  our  thoughts  thither,  and  more  than  all, 
the  feeling  that  we  have  tasted  through  experience  somewhat  of 
existence,  and  have  earned  a  right  to  moralize  upon  its  fleeting 
pleasures. 


y/7l06wds^l/^3^t*?!0?l  Srf6?m/a/6(600Wk& 

<?  # 


EMILY   C.   JUDSON, 

(FANNY   FORRESTER.) 

EMILY  C.  CHUBBUCK  was  born  in  the  pleasant  town  of  Morrisville,  in 
the  central  part  of  New  York.  This  is  the  "  Alderbrook"  so  familiar  to 
her  readers.  Here  she  made  a  profession  of  religion,  and  connected  her 
self  with  the  Baptist  church. 

From  Morrisvillc  she  went  to  Utica,  to  engage  in  teaching.  While 
living  at  Utica,  she  made  her  first  essays  at  authorship.  These  consisted 
of  some  small  volumes  of  a  religious  character  published  by  the  Baptist 
Publication  Society,  and  poetical  contributions  to  the  Knickerbocker. 
None  of  these,  however,  attracted  any  special  attention.  The  first  pro 
duction  of  her  pen  that  is  at  all  noticeable  was  a  light  article  which  she 
wrote,  without  any  very  definite  design,  under  the  assumed  name  of 
"  Fanny  Forrester/'  to  the  "  New  Mirror,"  while  on  a  visit  to  the  city  of 
New  York.  This  was  in  June,  1844.  The  editor  had  the  sagacity,  in 
this,  as  in  several  other  instances,  to  perceive  at  once  the  evidences  of 
genius  that  appeared  in  this  playful  bagatelle,  and  by  a  warm  and  judi 
cious  commendation,  led  the  author  to  a  continued,  and,  in  the  end,  most 
successful,  exploration  of  the  vein  thus  accidentally  brought  to  light.  A 
series  of  essays,  sketches,  and  poems  followed,  of  a  very  brilliant  character, 
which  in  1846  were  collected  and  published  in  two  volumes  under  the  title 
of  "  Alderbrook." 

In  the  beginning  of  1846,  the  venerable  missionary  Judson  returned  to 
America,  to  visit  the  churches.  On  coming  to  Philadelphia,  he  was  directed 
to  Miss  Chubbuck  as  a  suitable  person  to  prepare  a  memoir  of  his  lately 
deceased  wife,  the  second  Mrs.  Judson.  Miss  Chubbuck,  then  resident  in 
Philadelphia,  cheerfully  undertook  the  grateful  task.  Being  thus  thrown 
much  together,  a  mutual  affection  sprung  up  between  them,  and  the  favoured 
child  of  literature  joyfully  laid  aside  the  laurels  then  fresh  upon  her  brow, 

(283) 


284  EMILY   C.    JUDSON. 

to  go,  as  the  wife  of  Dr.  Judson,  on  a  self-denying  mission  to  the  Burmans. 
They  were  married,  at  Hamilton,  New  York,  June  2, 1846,  and  soon  after 
sailed  for  Burmah.  The  "  Memoir"  was  published  in  1848.  Dr.  Judson 
died  at  Maulmain,  in  Burmah,  in  1850. 

Mrs.  Judson  is  now  on  her  way  back  to  the  United  States. 


LUCY  DUTTON. 

IT  was  an  October  morning,  warm  and  sunny,  but  with  even  its 
sunshine  subdued  into  a  mournful  softness,  and  its  gorgeous  drapery 
chastened  by  a  touch  of  the  dreamy  atmosphere  into  a  sympathy 
with  sorrow.  And  there  was  a  sorrowing  one  who  needed  sympa 
thy  on  that  still,  holy  morning — the  sympathy  of  the  great  Heart 
which  beats  in  Nature's  bosom — for  she  could  hope  no  other.  Poor 
Lucy  Dutton  ! 

There  was  a  funeral  that  morning — a  stranger  would  have  judged 
by  the  gathering  that  the  great  man  of  the  village  was  dead,  and 
all  that  crowd  had  come  out  to  do  his  ashes  honour — but  it  was  not 
so.  Yet  the  little,  old-fashioned  church  was  filled  to  overflowing. 
Some  there  were  that  turned  their  eyes  devoutly  to  the  holy  man 
that  occupied  the  sacred  desk,  receiving  from  his  lips  the  words  of 
life  ;  some  looked  upon  the  little  coffin  that  stood,  covered  with  its 
black  pall,  upon  a  table  directly  below  him,  and  perhaps  thought 
of  their  own  mortality,  or  that  of  their  bright  little  ones ;  while 
many,  very  many,  gazed  with  cold  curiosity  at  the  solitary  mourner 
occupying  the  front  pew.  This  was  a  young  creature,  in  the  very 
spring-time  of  life, — a  frail,  erring  being,  whose  only  hope  was  in 
Him  who  said,  "Neither  do  I  condemn  thee — go,  and  sin  no 
more."  There  was  a  weight  of  shame  upon  her  head,  and  woe 
upon  her  heart,  that  together  made  the  bereaved  young  mother 
cower  almost  to  the  earth  before  the  prying  eyes  that  came  to  look 
upon  her  in  her  distressing  humiliation.  Oh !  it  was  a  pitiful  sight ! 
that  crushed,  helpless  creature's  agony. 

But  the  year  before,  and  this  same  lone  mourner  was  considered 
a  sweet,  beautiful  child,  whom  everybody  was  bound  to  protect  and 
love ;  because,  but  that  she  was  the  pet  lamb  of  a  doting  old  wo- 


EMILY  C.  JUDSON.  285 

man,  she  was  without  friend  and  protector.  Lucy  Button  was  the 
last  blossom  on  a  tree  which  had  boasted  many  fair  ones.  When 
the  grave  opened  to  one  after  another  of  that  doomed  family,  till 
none  but  this  bright,  beautiful  bud  was  left,  she  became  the  all  in 
all,  and  with  the  doting  affection  of  age  was  she  cherished.  When 
poverty  came  to  Granny  Button's  threshold,  she  drew  her  one 
priceless  jewel  to  her  heart,  and  laughed  at  poverty.  When  sor 
rows  of  every  kind  compassed  her  about,  and  the  sun  went  down 
in  her  heaven  of  hope,  another  rose  in  a  holier  heaven  of  love  ;  and 
Lucy  Button  was  this  fountain  of  love-born  light.  The  old  lady 
and  her  pretty  darling  occupied  a  small,  neat  cottage,  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  with  a  garden  attached  to  it,  in  which  the  child  flitted 
all  day  long,  like  a  glad  spirit  among  the  flowers.  And,  next  to 
her  child-idol,  the  simple-hearted  old  lady  loved  those  flowers,  with 
a  love  which  pure  natures  ever  bear  to  the  beautiful.  It  was  by 
these,  and  the  fruit  produced  by  the  little  garden,  that  the  twain 
lived.  Many  a  fine  carriage  drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  hum 
ble  cottage,  and  bright  ladies  and  dashing  gentlemen  sauntered 
beneath  the  shade,  while  the  rosy  fingers  of  Lucy  adjusted  bou 
quets  for  them,  her  bright  lips  wreathed  with  smiles,  and  her 
sunny  eye  turning  to  her  grandmother  at  the  placing  of  every  stem, 
as  though  for  approbation  of  her  taste.  Not  a  child  in  all  the 
neighbourhood  was  so  happy  as  Lucy.  Not  a  child  in  all  the 
neighbourhood  was  so  beautiful,  so  gentle,  and  so  good.  And 
nobody  ever  thought  of  her  as  anything  but  a  child.  Though  she 
grew  to  the  height  of  her  tallest  geranium,  and  her  form  assumed 
womanly  proportions,  nobody,  not  even  the  rustic  beaux  around 
her,  thought  of  her  as  anything  but  a  child.  Lucy  was  so  artless, 
and  loved  her  dear  old  grandmother  so  truly,  that  the  two  were 
somehow  connected  in  people's  minds,  and  it  seemed  as  impossible 
that  the  girl  should  grow  older,  as  that  the  old  lady  should  grow 
younger. 

Lucy  was  just  booked  for  fifteen,  with  the  seal  of  innocence 
upon  her  heart,  and  a  rose-leaf  on  her  cheek,  when  "  the  Herman 
property,"  a  fine  summer  residence  that  had  been  for  years  unoc 
cupied,  was  purchased  by  a  widow  lady  from  the  metropolis.  She 


286  EMILY  C.   JUDSON. 

caine  to  Alderbrook  early  in  the  spring,  accompanied  by  her  only 
son,  to  visit  her  new  possessions,  and  finding  the  spot  exceedingly 
pleasant,  she  determined  to  remain  there.  And  so  Lucy  met  the 
young  metropolitan ;  and  Lucy  was  beautiful  and  trusting,  and 
thoughtless ;  and  he  was  gay,  selfish,  and  profligate.  Needs  the 
story  to  be  told  ? 

When  the  Howards  went  away,  Lucy  awoke  from  her  dream. 
She  looked  about  her,  and  upon  herself,  with  the  veil  taken  from 
her  eyes ;  and  then  she  turned  from  all  she  had  ever  loved ;  for, 
in  the  breaking  up  of  those  dreams,  was  broken  poor  Lucy's  heart. 

Nay,  censor,  Lucy  was  a  child — consider  how  very  young,  how 
very  untaught — oh  !  her  innocence  was  no  match  for  the  sophistry 
of  a  gay  city  youth  !  And  young  Howard  stole  her  unthinking 
heart  the  first  day  he  looked  in  to  purchase  a  bouquet.  Poor,  poor 
Lucy ! 

Before  the  autumn  leaves  fell,  Granny  Button's  bright  pet  knelt 
in  her  little  chamber,  and  upon  her  mother's  grave,  and  down  by 
the  river-side,  where  she  had  last  met  Justin  Howard,  and  prayed 
for  death.  Sweet,  joyous  Lucy  Button,  asking  to  lay  her  bright 
head  in  the  grave  !  Spring  came,  and  shame  was  stamped  upon 
the  cottage  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Lucy  bowed  her  head  upon  her 
bosom,  and  refused  to  look  upon  anything  but  her  baby ;  and  the 
old  lady  shrunk,  like  a  shrivelled  leaf,  before  this  last  and  greatest 
of  her  troubles.  The  neighbourhood  had  its  usual  gossip.  There 
were  taunts,  and  sneers,  and  coarse  jests,  and  remarks  severely 
true  ;  but  only  a  little,  a  very  little,  pity.  Lucy  bore  all  this  well, 
for  she  knew  that  it  was  deserved  ;  but  she  had  worse  than  this  to 
bear.  Every  day  she  knelt  by  the  bed  of  the  one  being  who  had 
doted  upon  her  from  infancy,  and  begged  her  blessing,  but  in  vain. 

"  Oh  !  that  I  had  laid  you  in  the  coffin,  with  your  dead  mother, 
when  all  around  me  said  that  the  breath  had  passed  from  you  !" 
was  the  unvarying  reply ;  "  then  my  gray  hairs  might  have  gone 
down  to  the  grave  without  dishonour  from  the  child  that  I  took 
from  the  gate  of  death,  and  bore  for  years  upon  my  bosom.  Would 
you  had  died,  Lucy  !" 

And  Lucy  would  turn  away  her  head,  and,  in  the  bitterness  of 


EMILY  C.  JUDSON.  287 

her  heart,  echo,  "Ay  !  would  that  I  had  died!"  Then  she  would 
take  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and,  while  the  scalding  tears  bathed  its 
unconscious  face,  pray  God  to  forgive  the  wicked  wish,  and  pre 
serve  her  life  for  the  sake  of  this  sinless  heir  to  shame.  And 
sometimes  Lucy  would  smile — not  that  calm,  holy  smile  which 
usually  lingers  about  an  infant's  cradle,  but  a  faint,  sicklied  play 
of  the  love-light  within,  as  though  the  mother's  fond  heart  were 
ashamed  of  its  own  throbbings.  But,  before  the  autumn  passed, 
Lucy  Dutton  was  fearfully  stricken.  Death  came  !  She  laid  her  last 
comfort  from  her  bosom  into  the  coffin,  and  they  were  now  bearing 
it  to  the  grave, — she,  the  only  mourner.  It  mattered  but  little 
that  the  grandmother's  forgiveness  and  blessing  came  now ;  Lucy 
scarce  knew  the  difference  between  these  words  and  those  last 
spoken  ;  and  most  earnestly  did  she  answer,  "  Would,  would  that 
I  had  died  !"  Poor,  poor,  Lucy  ! 

She  sat  all  through  the  sermon,  and  the  singing,  and  the  prayer, 
with  her  head  bowed  upon  the  side  of  the  pew ;  and  when  at  last 
they  bore  the  coffin  to  the  door,  and  the  congregation  began  to 
move  forward,  she  did  not  raise  it  until  the  kind  clergyman  came 
and  led  her  out  to  take  a  last  look  at  her  dead  boy.  Then  she  laid 
her  thin,  pale  face  against  his  within  the  coffin,  and  sobbed  aloud. 
And  now  some  began  to  pity  the  stricken  girl,  and  whisper  to  their 
neighbours  that  she  was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.  Still 
none  came  forward  to  whisper  the  little  word  which  might  have 
brought  healing,  but  the  holy  man  whose  duty  it  was.  He  took 
her  almost  forcibly  from  the  infant  clay,  and  strove  to  calm  her, 
while  careless  eyes  came  to  look  upon  that  dearer  to  her  than  her 
own  heart's  blood.  Finally,  curiosity  was  satisfied  ;  they  closed 
the  coffin,  screwed  down  the  lid,  spread  the  black  cloth  over  it,  and 
the  procession  began  to  form.  Minister  Green  left  the  side  of  the 
mourner,  and  took  his  station  in  advance,  accompanied  by  some 
half  dozen  others ;  then  four  men  followed,  bearing  the  light  coffin 
in  their  hands,  and  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  mourner.  She 
did  not  move. 

"Pass  on,  madam,"  said  Squire  Field,  who  always  acted  the 
part  of  marshal  on  such  occasions  ;  and,  though  little  given  to  the 


•288  EMILY  C.    JUDSON. 

weakness  of  feeling,  he  now  softened  his  voice  as  much  as  it  would 
bear  softening.  "  This  way — right  behind  the — the — pass  on  !" 

Lucy  hesitated  a  moment,  and  many  a  generous  one  longed  to 
step  forward  and  give  her  an  arm ;  but  selfish  prudence  forbade. 
One  bright  girl,  who  had  been  Lucy's  playmate  from  the  cradle, 
but  had  not  seen  her  face  for  many  months,  drew  impulsively 
towards  her ;  but  she  met  a  reproving  eye  from  the  crowd,  and 
only  whispering,  "  I  do  pity  you,  Lucy !"  she  shrunk  back,  and 
sobbed  almost  as  loud  as  her  erring  friend.  Lucy  started  at  the 
words,  and,  gazing  wildly  round  her,  tottered  on  after  the  coffin. 

Loud,  and  slow,  and  fearfully  solemn,  stroke  after  stroke,  the 
old  church-bell  doled  forth  its  tale  ;  and  slowly  and  solemnly  the 
crowd  moved  on  with  a  measured  tread,  though  there  was  many  a 
careless  eye  and  many  a  smiling  lip,  turning  to  other  eyes  and 
other  lips,  with  something  like  a  jest  between  them.  On  moved 
the  crowd  after  the  mourner ;  while  she,  with  irregular,  laboured 
step,  her  arms  crossed  on  her  bosom,  and  her  head  bent  to  the 
same  resting-place,  just  kept  pace  with  the  body  of  her  dead  boy. 
Winding  through  the  opened  gate  into  the  church-yard,  they  went 
trailing  slowly  through  the  long,  dead  grass,  while  some  of  the 
children  crept  slily  from  the  procession,  to  pick  up  the  tufts  of 
scarlet  and  yellow  leaves,  which  made  this  place  of  graves  strangely 
gay ;  and  several  young  people  wandered  off,  arm  in  arm,  pausing 
as  they  went,  to  read  the  rude  inscriptions  lettered  on  the  stones. 

On  went  the  procession,  away  to  the  farthermost  corner,  where 
slept  the  stranger  and  the  vagabond.  Here  a  little  grave  had  been 
dug,  and  the  coffin  was  now  set  down  beside  it,  while  the  long  pro 
cession  circled  slowly  round.  Several  went  up  and  looked  into  the 
dark,  damp  cradle  of  the  dead  child  ;  one  observed  to  his  neigh 
bour  that  it  was  very  shallow  ;  and  another  said  that  Tom  Jones 
always  slighted  his  work  when  there  was  nobody  to  see  to  it ;  any 
how,  it  was  not  much  matter,  the  child  would  stay  buried ;  and 
another  let  drop  a  jest,  a  hard,  but  not  very  witty  one,  though  it 
was  followed  by  a  smothered  laugh.  All  this  passed  quietly; 
nothing  was  spoken  above  a  low  murmur  ;  but  Lucy  heard  it  all ; 


EMILY  C.   JUDSON.  289 

and,  as  she  heard  and  remembered,  what  a  repulsive  thing  seemed 
to  her  the  human  heart !  Poor  Lucy  Dutton  ! 

Minister  Green  stood  at  the  head  of  the  grave  and  said  a  prayer, 
while  Lucy  leaned  against  a  sickly-looking  tree,  alone,  and  pressed 
her  cold  hands  against  her  temples,  and  wondered  if  she  should 
ever  pray  again — if  God  would  hear  her  if  she  should.  Then  they 
laid  the  little  coffin  upon  ropes,  and  gently  lowered  it.  The  grave 
was  too  short,  or  the  men  were  careless,  for  there  was  a  harsh 
grating  against  the  hard  earth,  which  made  Lucy  start  and  extend 
her  arms ;  but  she  instantly  recollected  herself,  and,  clasping  her 
hands  tightly  over  her  mouth,  lest  her  agony  should  make  itself 
heard,  she  tried  to  stand  calmly.  Then  a  handful  of  straw  was 
thrown  upon  the  coffin,  and  immediately  a  shovelful  of  earth  fol 
lowed.  Oh !  that  first  sinking  of  the  cold  clod  upon  the  bosom  we 
have  loved  !  What  a  fearful,  shivering  sensation,  does  it  send  to 
the  heart  and  along  the  veins  !  And  then  the  benumbing  faint- 
ness  which  follows,  as  though  our  own  breath  wrere  struggling  up 
through  that  damp  covering  of  earth  !  Lucy  gasped  and  staggered, 
and  then  she  twined  her  arm  about  the  body  of  the  little  tree,  and 
laid  her  cheek  against  its  rough  bark,  and  strove  hard  to  keep  her 
self  from  falling. 

Some  thought  the  men  were  very  long  in  filling  up  the  grave, 
but  Lucy  thought  nothing  about  it.  She  did  not,  after  that  first 
shovelful,  hear  the  earth  as  it  fell ;  and  when,  after  all  was  done 
and  the  sods  of  withered  grass  had  been  laid  on,  Minister  Green 
came  to  tell  her,  she  did  not  hear  his  voice.  "When  she  did,  she 
pushed  back  the  hair  from  her  hollowed  temples,  looked  vacantly 
into  his  face,  and  shook  her  head.  Others  came  up  to  her — a  good- 
natured  man  who  had  been  kind  to  her  grandmother ;  then  the 
deacon's  wife,  followed  by  two  or  three  other  women ;  but  Lucy 
only  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  Glances  full  of  troubled  mystery 
passed  from  one  to  another  ;  there  was  an  alarmed  look  on  many 
faces,  which  those  more  distant  seemed  to  comprehend ;  and  still 
others  came  to  speak  to  Lucy.  It  was  useless — she  could  find  no 
meaning  in  their  words — the  star  of  intellect  had  gone  out — the 
temple  was  darkened.  Poor,  poor  Lucy  Dutton ! 

37 


290  EMILY   C.  JUDSON. 

They  bore  her  home — for  she  was  passive  and  helpless — home  to 
the  sick  old  grandmother,  who  laid  her  withered  hand  on  those 
bright  locks,  and  kissed  the  cold  cheek,  and  took  her  to  her  bosom, 
as  though  she  had  been  an  infant.  And  Lucy  smiled,  and  talked 
of  playing  by  the  brook,  and  chasing  the  runaway  bees,  and  of 
toys  for  her  baby-house,  and  wondered  why  they  were  all  weeping, 
particularly  dear  grandmamma,  who  ought  to  be  so  happy.  But 
this  lasted  only  a  few  days,  and  then  another  grave  was  made,  and 
yet  another,  in  the  poor's  corner ;  and  the  grandmother  and  her 
shattered  idol  slept  together.  The  grave  is  a  blessed  couch  and 
pillow  to  the  wretched.  Rest  thee  there,  poor  Lucy  ! 


MY  FIRST  GRIEF. 

I  LAUGHED  and  crowed  above  this  water,  when  I  was  a  baby, 
and,  therefore,  I  love  it.  I  played  beside  it,  when  the  days  were 
years  of  summer-time,  and  the  summers  were  young  eternities  of 
brightness,  and,  therefore,  I  love  it.  It  was  the  scene  of  my  first 
grief,  too.  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  There  is  not  much  to  tell,  but  I 
have  a  notion  that  there  are  people  above  us,  up  in  the  air,  and 
behind  the  clouds,  that  consider  little  girls'  doings  about  as  impor 
tant  as  those  of  men  and  women.  The  birds  and  the  angels  are 
great  levellers. 

It  was  a  dry  season  ;  the  brook  was  low,  and  a  gay  trout  in  a 
coat  of  golden  brown,  dotted  over  with  crimson,  and  a  silver  pina 
fore,  lay,  weather-bound,  on  the  half-dry  stones,  all  heated  and 
panting,  with  about  a  tea-spoonful  of  lukewarm  water,  turning 
lazily  from  its  head,  and  creeping  down  its  back  at  too  slow  a  pace 
to  afford  the  sufferer  hope  of  emancipation.  My  sympathies — little 
girls,  you  must  know,  are  made  up  of  love  and  sympathy,  and  such 
like  follies,  which  afterwards  contract  into — n'importe!  I  was 
saying,  my  sympathies  were  aroused  ;  and,  quite  forgetting  that 
water  would  take  the  gloss  from  my  new  red  morocco  shoes,  I 


EMILY   C.    JUDS ON.  291 

picked  my  way  along,  and  laying  hold  of  my  fine  gentleman  in 
limbo,  succeeded  in  burying  him,  wet  face  and  all,  in  the  folds  of 
my  white  apron  !  But  such  an  uneasy  prisoner  !  More  than  one 
frightened  toss  did  he  get  into  the  grass,  and  then  I  had  an  infinite 
deal  of  trouble  to  secure  him  again.  His  gratitude  was  very  like 
that  of  humans',  when  you  do  them  unasked  service. 

When  I  had  reached  a  cool,  shaded,  deep  spot,  far  adown,  where 
the  spotted  alders  lean,  like  so  many  self-enamoured  narcissuses, 
over  the  ripple-faced  mirror,  I  dropped  my  apron,  and  let  go  my 
prize.  Ah  !  he  was  grateful  then  !  He  must  have  been  !  How 
he  dived,  and  sprang  to  the  surface,  and  spread  out  his  little  wings 
of  dark-ribbed  gossamer,  and  frisked  about,  keeping  all  the  time  a 
cool,  thin  sheet  of  silver  between  his  back  and  the  sun-sick  air  !  I 
loved  that  pretty  fish,  for  I  had  been  kind  to  it ;  and  I  thought  it 
would  love  me,  too,  and  stay  there,  and  be  a  play-fellow  for  me ;  so 
I  went  every  day  and  watched  for  it,  and  watched  until  my  little 
eyes  ached;  but  I  never  saw  it  again.  That  was  my  first  grief: 
what  is  there  in  years  to  make  a  heart  ache  heavier  ?  That  first 
will  be  longer  remembered  than  the  last.  I  dare  say. 


SARA  J.  CLARKE, 

(GRACE   GREENWOOD.) 


Miss  CLARKE  was  born  in  Pompey,  an  inland  town  in  the  county  of 
Onondaga,  New  York.  Here,  and  in  the  neighbouring  town  of  Fabius, 
she  spent  the  greater  portion  of  her  childhood.  During  her  early  girl 
hood  she  resided  with  her  parents,  at  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  but  at  the  age 
of  nineteen  removed  with  them  to  New  Brighton,  Penn.,  which  has  since 
been  her  nominal  home,  though  perhaps  the  larger  part  of  her  time  is 
spent  with  her  friends,  in  New  England,  at  Washington,  and  Philadelphia. 

Miss  Clarke  wrote  verse  at  an  early  age,  and  published  under  her  own 
name ;  but,  on  coming  out  as  a  prose-writer,  being  doubtful  of  the  experi 
ment,  she  shielded  herself  behind  a  nom  de  plume.  Her  success  has  thus 
far  greatly  exceeded  the  expectations  of  her  most  sanguine  friends.  Yet, 
in  a  life  of  constant  change  and  excitement,  of  extensive  and  pleasant 
social  relations,  she  has  not  been  able  to  concentrate  her  powers  on  any 
important  work,  but  has  given  them  at  best  but  imperfect  exercise  in  a 
series  of  magazine  articles,  brief  sketches,  light  critiques,  and  lighter 
letters. 

A  selection  from  her  prose  writings,  making  a  volume  of  over  four  hun 
dred  pages,  entitled  "  Greenwood  Leaves/'  was  published  in  the  fall  of 
1849.  This  work  has  reached  a  third  edition.  In  the  autumn  of  the  fol 
lowing  year  was  brought  out  a  collection  of  her  poems,  a  volume  of  190 
pages ;  also,  a  volume  of  original  juvenile  stories,  entitled  "  History  of 
My  Pets/'  both  of  which  publications  have  reached  a  second  edition. 
Another  work  by  Miss  Clarke,  much  similar  in  character  to  "  Greenwood 
Leaves/'  is  now  in  press. 

Her  father,  Doctor  Thaddeus  Clarke,  formerly  a  physician  of  some 
eminence,  was  born  in  Lebanon,  Connecticut,  of  a  good  old  Puritan  stock. 
He  is  yet  living.  Her  mother,  a  native  of  Brooklyn,  Connecticut,  is  of 

(292) 


SARA  J.    CLARKE.  293 

Huguenot  descent.  Sara,  the  youngest  daughter,  is  one  of  eleven  child 
ren,  nine  of  whom  are  now  living. 

The  following  carefully  written  estimate  of  the  intellectual  character  of 
Miss  Clarke,  is  from  the  pen  of  that  accomplished  critic,  the  Rev.  Henry 
Giles : 

"  That  Grace  Greenwood  is  a  writer,  ready,  rapid,  bold,  brilliant,  and 
most  discursive,  whatever  she  throws  from  her  pen  at  once  reveals.  But 
to  be  ready  and  rapid  is  often  to  be  nothing  more  than  possessed  of  fatal 
facility ;  and  to  seem  bold,  brilliant,  and  discursive  is  frequently  to  have 
only  the  hardihood  of  ignorance,  and  to  be  glittering  and  superficial.  The 
readiness  and  rapidity,  however,  of  this  writer  are  in  themselves  surprising, 
from  the  truth  and  force  with  which  thought  keeps  pace  with  expression ; 
and  we  wonder  to  find  so  much  true  beauty,  so  much  genuine  coinage  of 
golden  fancies  in  the  prodigality  with  which  she  flings  about  her  shining 
store.  Yet  not  on  these  do  we  dwell,  and  not  by  these  does  she  win  the 
cordial  feeling  with  which  we  regard  her  genius.  We  find  in  it  a  noble 
seriousness.  Bounding,  elastic,  and  sportive  as  her  imagination  is,  it  is 
not  all  a  sparkling  stream,  and  is  not  all  in  sunlight ;  it  winds  at  times 
through  the  solemn  shadows  of  life ;  and  it  has  springs  in  the  sources  of 
reflective  thought,  to  make  for  itself,  and  fill  deeper  and  broader  channels 
than  any  of  those  in  which  it  has  yet  found  outlets.  As  it  is,  the  impulses 
of  earnest  purpose  and  the  gush  of  generous  desire,  often  break  to  pieces 
the  delicate  wreath  which  had  been  already  half  woven  out  of  ingenious 
fancies,  and  cast  the  scattered  flowers  upon  the  boiling  torrent  of  indignant 
sympathies.  The  workings  of  mere  fancy,  however  admirable  or  admired, 
could  never  exhaust,  could  never  express,  could  never  content  a  nature 
such  as  hers — for  she  feels  too  much  in  herself,  and  she  feels  too  much  for 
others,  to  find  only  play  and  summer-time  in  the  life  of  genius.  In  the 
gayest  tale  of  hers,  we  read  below  it  meanings  from  the  heart ;  in  the  most 
laughing  letter,  we  can  often  discern  a  pensive  wisdom  hidden  in  the 
smile ;  in  the  passing  criticism  on  a  work  of  art,  we  have  often  not  only 
the  fine  enthusiasm,  which  flames  up  with  the  love  of  beauty ;  but  when 
the  work  is  devotional,  we  have,  with  phrase  more  happy  and  with  spirit 
more  profound,  the  subdued  eloquence  of  inborn  reverence.  The  serious 
ness  of  Grace  Greenwood  is  not  the  less  intense  because  it  is  not  moody 
or  murky ;  because  it  does  not  tire  you  with  tears,  nor  disturb  you  with 
groans,  nor  disgust  you  with  men,  nor  dishearten  you  with  nature.  Grace 
is  too  healthy  for  mumps ;  she  is  too  sincere  to  be  maudlin ;  she  is  too 
cheerful  for  lamentations ;  and  her  love  is  too  large  for  creation  and  too 
kind,  to  tolerate  the  gloom  of  a  dissatisfied  spirit.  But  no  soul  is  more 
quick  to  kindle  at  a  wrong  done  to  the  lowest;  and  no  soul  more  brave  to 
rebuke  unworthiness  in  the  highest.  Yet  is  her  heart  gentle,  compas 
sionate;  aroused  only  by  the  very  strength  of  its  goodness;  by  its  hatred 
against  injustice,  and  by  its  sympathy  with  suffering.  Even  when  a  lofty 


294  SARA   J.    CLARKE. 

anger  moves  her,  there  is  ever  sighing  through  its  tones  a  sound  of  pity. 
For  there  is  nothing  that  we  can  be  rightly  angry  at  in  this  world,  but  we 
must  pity  also.  Every  soul  that  feels  much,  feels  this. 

"  We  think,  therefore,  that  in  her  pages,  radiant  as  they  seem,  we  can 
read,  without  any  doubtful  interpretation,  meanings  of  sadness.  If  it  were 
not  so,  we  should  be  disappointed ;  for  they  manifest  that  genius  of  a 
loving  humanity,  which  cannot  help  but  oftentimes  be  sad.  Grace  Green 
wood,  say  what  persons  will,  is  not  what  we  should  call  a  sprightly  writer. 
Her  productions  are  not  mere  sprightly  flashes,  but  many-toned  utterances 
of  feelings,  that  lay  deep  down  in  the  breast,  and  to  which  occasions  gave 
nothing  but  expression. 

"  Genius,  accompanied  with  strong  sensibility,  were  it  not  for  certain  com 
pensations,  would  be  a  penalty  and  not  a  boon.  Such  compensation  Grace 
Greenwood  has  in  considerable  affluence.  One  of  these  is  the  relief  that 
mental  hilarity  gives  to  mental  intensity.  Strong  as  her  perception  is  of 
what  is  serious  in  life,  it  has  its  counterpoise  by  her  equally  strong  feeling 
of  what  is  joyous.  The  grave  and  troubled  condition  of  man's  estate  we 
can  observe  that  she  reverently  appreciates ;  but  we  can  as  well  observe 
that  she  also  detects  man's  absurdities  and  vanities,  and  heartily  she  laughs 
at  them.  Yet  is  there  no  contempt  in  the  laughter,  but  an  affectionate 
humanity.  She  has  humour  most  rich  and  racy — that  which,  springs  from 
keenness  of  intellect,  fullness  of  imagination,  kindliness  of  temper,  and 
playfulness  of  spirit. 

"  This  remark  has  its  proof  and  its  example  in  the  parodies  contained  in 
some  of  her  writings.  The  imitation  is  unmistakeable ;  the  fun  resist 
less  ;  an.d  yet,  we  are  so  made  to  feel  the  beauty  of  the  writers  in  the  bur 
lesque,  that  while  we  laugh  we  admire.  And  this  enjoyment  of  beauty  is 
another  compensation  for  the  painful  sensibility  of  genius,  and  the  only 
other  we  shall  mention.  The  language,  and  the  activity  of  such  enjoy 
ment  in  Grace  Greenwood,  no  one  can  doubt,  who  reads  her  pages  with 
any  spirit  like  her  own.  Neither  can  we  doubt  the  sincerity  of  it  and  its 
healthiness.  It  is  no  matter  of  artificial  or  factitious  cultivation ;  it  has 
grown  with  her  in  her  native  valleys  and  woodlands;  she  has  listened  to 
its  music  in  the  foamings  of  her  native  waves  and  torrents;  she  has  gazed 
upon  its  majestic  forms  in  the  glory  of  her  native  mountains;  and  she  has 
communed  with  the  boundless  spirit  of  it  in  that  mighty  azure  dome  of 
matchless  purity  that  rests  over  her  native  land." 


A  DREAM  OF  DEATH. 

How  appropriate,  and  sadly  truthful,  is  the  expression,  "  The 
night  of  the  grave  !"  How  the  deep  shadows  of  impenetrable  mys 
tery  hang  about  the  dread  portals  of  eternity ;  how,  in  approach- 


SARA   J.    CLARKE.  295 

ing  them,  even  in  thought,  we  lose  ourselves  in  clouds,  and  grope 
in  thick  darkness ! 

In  the  near  and  solemn  contemplation  of  the  awful  change  which 
awaits  us  all,  how  eagerly  does  the  soul  receive  everything,  in 
religion,  philosophy,  or  personal  experience,  which  lifts,  or  seems 
to  lift,  even  a  little  way,  a  corner  of  the  vast  curtain  which  hides 
from  our  mortal  view  the  spirit-realm  to  which  we  go ;  letting  in 
gleams  of  its  immortal  joy  and  glory,  to  light  and  cheer  our  painful 
path  through  the  dark  valley. 

During  a  late  illness,  there  came  a  dream  to  me  as  I  slept,  which 
left  a  solemn  and  ineffaceable  impress  upon  my  mind,  but  to  which 
I  may  seem,  by  relating,  to  attach  undue  importance ;  for,  after 
all,  it  was  but  a  dream ;  and  I  hardly  know  how  it  is,  that  I  have 
so  laid  it  away  in  my  heart,  as  a  treasure  of  exceeding  worth,  almost 
as  a  heavenly  revelation.  It  was  no  wild,  mystic,  and  fanciful 
dream,  but  strangely  distinct  and  beautifully  consistent  through 
out  ;  and  it  is  with  the  most  faithful  truthfulness  that  I  now  ven 
ture  to  relate  it,  hoping  that  to  some  hearts  it  may  have,  or  seem 
to  have,  a  meaning  and  a  purpose. 

In  my  vision,  it  seemed  that  my  last  hour  of  the  life  of  earth 
was  swiftly  passing  from  me.  The  dread  presence  of  Death  filled 
my  chamber  with  mourning  and  gloom,  and  awe  unspeakable.  My 
heart,  like  a  caged  bird,  now  struggled  and  fluttered  wildly  in  my 
breast,  now  seemed  sinking,  faint,  and  panting  with  weariness  and 
fear.  The  last  mist  was  creeping  slowly  over  my  eyes,  and  I  heard 
but  imperfectly  the  words  of  prayer,  sorrow,  and  tenderness, 
breathed  around  me.  Dear  forms  were  at  my  side,  clasping  my 
cold  hands,  and  weeping  upon  my  neck.  The  bosom  of  the  best 
beloved  pillowed  my  poor  head;  her  hand  wiped  the  death-dew 
from  my  brow ;  she  spoke  to  me  strong  words  of  comfort,  crushing 
down  the  great  anguish  of  her  heart  the  while. 

It  was  no  hour  of  joy  or  triumph ;  my  spirit  was  not  buoyed  up 
by  exulting  faith,  nor  did  waiting  angels  minister  to  it  the  peace 
and  consolation  of  Heaven  ;  but  storm,  and  darkness,  and  fear, 
encompassed  it,  filling  it  with  wild  regrets,  an  awful  expectation,  a 
sore  dismay.  Its  feet  were  already  set  in  the  river  of  death ;  but, 


296  SARA  J.    CLARKE. 

like  a  timid  child,  it  shrank  from  the  chill,  midnight  waves,  and 
clung  convulsively  to  its  earthly  loves, — vain,  alas !  to  protect, 
powerless  to  detain ! 

Soul  and  body  parted,  as  they  part  who  have  lived  and  suffered, 
and  toiled  together,  in  bondage,  but  who  love  one  another,  and 
who,  at  last,  are  torn  asunder  by  the  inexorable  will  of  a  remorse 
less  master. 

But  joy  for  one  of  these !  for  whom  the  weariness  of  mortal 
bondage  was  to  give  place  to  the  freedom  of  eternity ;  the  pain, 
the  struggle,  the  fear,  the  sorrow  of  its  earthly  lot,  to  peace,  rest, 
assurance,  and  joy  unspeakable !  for,  at  last,  at  last,  that  soul, 
breaking  from  this  poor  life,  with  one  glad  bound,  leaped  into 
immortality !  Oh !  the  sudden  comprehension  of  the  height  and 
depth  of  the  fulness  of  being  !  How  every  thought,  and  aspiration, 
and  affection,  and  power,  seemed  springing  up  into  everlasting 
life! 

But  methought  that  the  first  feeling  or  sentiment,  of  which  I 
was  conscious,  was  freedom, — freedom,  which  brought  with  it  a 
sense  of  joy,  and  power,  and  glorious  exultation,  utterly  indescrib 
able  in  words.  Ah !  it  was  beautiful,  that  this  crowning  gift  of 
God  to  His  creatures,  which  had  ever  been  so  dear  to  my  human 
heart ;  this  principle,  which  here  I  had  so  adored,  was  the  first 
pure  and  perfect  portion  of  the  Divine  life,  whose  presence  I  hailed 
with  the  great  and  voiceless  rapture  of  a  disenthralled  spirit. 

Methought  that  I  witnessed  no  immediate  visible  manifestation 
of  Deity,  heard  no  audible  revelation  of  the  Divine  existence ;  but 
that  I  received  fullness  of  faith,  and  greatness  of  knowledge,  in 
loneliness  and  stillness,  yet  instantaneously,  and  more  like  recol 
lections  than  revelations.  Cloud  after  cloud  rolled  swiftly  away 
from  the  dread  mysteries  of  eternity,  till  all  was  meridian  bright 
ness  and  surpassing  glory.  The  presence  of  Deity  was  round 
about  me  every  where— /eft,  methought,  not  beheld;  it  flowed  to 
me  in  the  air,  " every  undulation  filled  with  soul;"  floated  about 
me  in  the  rapt  silence,  like  an  all-pervading  essence,  diffusing  itself 
abroad  over  the  great  immensity  of  being. 

There  was  no  sudden  unveiling  of  my  eyes  to  behold  the  burning 


SARA  J.    CLARKE.  297 

splendours  of  the  dread  abode  of  the  Sovereign  of  the  Universe, 
"the  city  of  our  God,"  girdled  about  with  suns,  over  whose  "crys 
tal  battlements"  float  banners  of  light,  within  whose  courts  bow 
the  redeemed  in  ceaseless  adoration ;  there  was  no  sudden  unseal 
ing  of  my  ear  to  the  triumphal  psalms  of  the  blessed,  to  the  grand 
resounding  march  of  the  stars.  And,  methought,  no  fair  creatures 
of  light  came  to  me  at  once,  to  bear  me  upward,  nor  was  my  soul 
eager  to  depart,  on  swift,  impatient  wing,  from  the  dear,  though 
darkened  scenes  of  earth,  and  the  strong,  though  transient,  asso 
ciations  of  time ;  but  still  lingered,  hovering  over  that  chamber  of 
death,  from  which  now  arose  a  passionate  burst  of  grief,  the  deep 
sobbing,  and  wild  swell  of  the  first  storm  of  sorrow.  Then,  me 
thought,  my  soul  looked  down  upon  its  perishing  companion  in  toil 
and  suffering — the  worn  and  resigned  body;  marked  the  rigid 
limbs,  the  parted  lips,  the  pale  and  sunken  cheek,  the  shadowed 
eye,  and  all  the  mortality  settled  on  the  brow ;  looked  upon  these, 
and  felt  no  sorrow.  But  ah !  the  tears  and  groans  of  those  dear 
bereaved  ones,  had  power  to  grieve  it  still,  to  "  disturb  that  soul 
with  pity,"  yet  not  such  mournful  pity  as  it  had  known  on  earth. 
A  serene  and  comprehending  faith  in  the  wisdom  and  loving  care 
of  the  Father,  reconciled  it  to  all  things ;  the  years  of  this  life,  to 
the  vision  of  its  new  existence,  seemed  shortened  to  brief  days,  and 
thus  the  time  of  release,  for  all  who  suffer  and  toil,  near  at  hand. 
Yet  with  great  yearnings  it  lingered  there,  its  earthly  love  not 
destroyed,  not  weakened,  but  made  stronger  far,  and  purer,  more 
like  to  the  love  of  Heaven. 

Then,  methought,  a  form  of  ineffable  beauty,  with  a  countenance 
of  peace,  wherein  was  human  love  breaking  through  celestial  glory, 
came  to  me,  and  said,  "  Oh,  daughter  of  earth,  it  is  now  thine  to 
go  forth,  with  the  freedom  of  an  immortal,  among  the  infinite 
worlds ;  to  range  at  will  through  the  vast  domains  of  the  wide  and 
wondrous  creation ;  to  track  the  shining  paths  of  beneficent  power, 
leading  on  from  beauty  to  beauty,  and  glory  to  glory,  through  the 
grand  and  measureless  universe  of  God.  Shall  we  visit  those  fair 
worlds,  those  radiant  stars,  thou  seest  shining  afar  in  the  clear 
depths  of  air  ? — they,  who  have  known  no  fall,  and  on  whom  the 

38 


298  SARA  J.    CLARKE. 

Father's  approving  smile  rests  with  a  perpetual  warmth  and 
serenity ;  whose  inhabitants  dwell  in  love,  and  worship,  and  con 
tent;  where  there  is  neither  death  nor  oppression,  suffering  nor 
sin ;  no  spoiler,  and  none  6  to  make  afraid ;'  none  who  slay  ;  none 
who  starve ;  none  who  flee  from  their  brothers,  and  call  on  God  in 
secret  places. 

"  There  also  the  laws  of  power  and  harmony  subdue  and  rule 
the  elements,  so  that  there  are  no  harsh  frosts,  nor  fierce  heat, 
neither  earthquake  nor  whelming  flood;  no  storms,  to  vex  the 
heavens,  nor  to  desolate  the  earth ;  whose  bloom  is  glad  in  the 
morning  sun,  and  beautiful  in  the  starlight.  There,  over  hill  and 
plain,  angels  have  written  holy  music  in  flowers ;  there,  summer 
streams  chime  down  the  mountain  side,  and  winds  play  among  the 
trees  with  the  sound  of  anthems. 

"  Over  those  worlds  divine  beings  oft  walk,  as  once  they  walked 
in  the  Eden  of  thy  earth,  ere  man  sinned,  and,  covering  his  face, 
went  out  from  the  presence  of  God.  Wilt  thou  go  thither?  Or 
wouldst  thou  ascend  the  steps  of  morning  light,  to  the  Divine 
courts,  thence  to  go  forth  on  some  errand  of  good,  or  enter  on 
some  office  of  love,  thy  portion  of  that  labour  which  is  worship  ?" 

Then  it  seemed  that  I  made  no  answer,  save  to  point  downward 
to  those  beloved  ones,  who  still  sat  in  darkness,  and  would  not  be 
comforted.  Then  the  angel  smiled,  and  said, — " It  is  well;  remain 
thou  with  these  through  their  day  of  time ;  be  near  them,  and  con 
sole  them  always  ;  go  before  them,  leading  their  way  down  the  dark 
valley ;  welcome  them  through  the  immortal  gates,  for  to  the  holy 
ministration  thou  hast  chosen  wert  thou  appointed." 

When  the  cold  light  of  dawn  broke  the  sleep  which  brought  this 
heavenly  vision,  it  was  as  the  coming  of  night,  and  not  of  morning. 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  LETTER. 

I  AM  reminded  of  an  incident,  or  rather  the  incident  of  yester 
day — an  accidental  meeting  with  the  poet  Longfellow. 


SARA  J.    CLARKE.  299 

Aside  from  mere  curiosity,  of  which  I  suppose  I  have  my  woman's 
share,  I  have  always  wished  to  look  on  the  flesh  and  blood  embodi 
ment  of  that  rare  genius,  of  that  mind  stored  with  the  wealth  of 
many  literatures,  the  lore  of  many  lands, — for  in  Longfellow  it  is 
the  scholar  as  well  as  the  poet  that  we  reverence.  The  first  glance 
satisfied  me  of  one  happy  circumstance — that  the  life  and  health 
which  throbbed  and  glowed  through  this  poet's  verse  had  their 
natural  correspondences  in  the  physical.  He  appears  perfectly 
healthful  and  vigorous — is  rather  English  in  person.  His  head  is 
simply  full,  well-rounded,  and  even,  not  severe  or  massive  in  cha 
racter.  The  first  glance  of  his  genial  eyes,  which  seem  to  have 
gathered  up  sunshine  through  all  the  summers  they  have  known, 
and  the  first  tones  of  his  cordial  voice,  show  one  that  he  has  not 
impoverished  his  own  nature  in  so  generously  endowing  the  crea 
tions  of  his  genius — has  not  drained  his  heart  of  the  wine  of  life, 
to  fill  high  the  beaker  of  his  song. 

Mr.  Longfellow  does  not  look  poetical,  as  Keats  looked  poetical, 
perhaps ;  but,  as  Hood  says  of  Gray's  precocious  youth,  who  used 
to  get  up  early 

"  To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn" — 

"he  died  young."  But,  what  is  better,  our  poet  looks  well,  for, 
after  all,  health  is  the  best,  most  happy  and  glorious  thing  in  the 
world.  On  my  Parnassus,  there  should  be  no  half-demented,  long 
haired,  ill-dressed  bards,  lean  and  pale,  subject  to  sudden  attacks 
of  poetic  frenzy — sitting  on  damp  clouds,  and  harping  to  the  winds ; 
but  they  should  be  a  hearty,  manly,  vigorous  set  of  inspired  gentle 
men,  erect  and  broad-chested,  with  features  more  on  the  robust 
than  the  romantic  style — writing  in  snug  studies,  or  fine,  large 
libraries,  surrounded  by  beauty,  elegance,  and  comfort — receiving 
inspiration  quietly  and  at  regular  hours,  after  a  hot  breakfast,  the 
morning  paper,  and  a  cigar — given  to  hospitality  and  great  din 
ners — driving  their  own  bays,  and  treating  their  excellent  wives  to 
a  box  at  the  opera,  a  season  at  Newport,  a  trip  to  the  Falls,  or  a 
winter  in  Rome. 

The  comforts  of  life  have  been  long  enough  monopolized  by 
thrifty  tradesmen — "men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line" — and  good 


300  SARA   J.    CLARKE. 

living  by  bishops  and  aldermen.  It  is  the  divine  right  of  genius 
to  be  well  kept  and  cared  for  by  the  world,  which  too  often  "  enter 
tains  the  angel  unaware,"  on  thin  soups  and  sour  wines,  or,  at  the 
best,  on  unsubstantial  puff-paste. 

I  heard  yesterday  that  Fredrika  Bremer  had  really  arrived  in 
New  York.  I  hope  that  it  is  so.  She  has  hosts  of  admirers  all 
over  our  country,  and  is  actually  loved  as  few  authors  are  loved, 
with  a  simple,  cordial,  home  affection — for  she  is  especially  a  writer 
for  the  fireside,  the  family  circle,  and  thus  addresses  herself  to  the 
affections  of  a  people  whose  purest  joys  arid  deepest  interests  centre 
in  domestic  life.  America  will  take  to  her  heart  this  child  of  genius 
and  of  nature — her  home  shall  be  by  every  hearth  in  our  land,  which 
has  been  made  a  dearer  and  a  brighter  place  by  her  poetry,  her 
romance,  and  her  genial  humour.  She  will  be  welcomed  joyfully 
by  every  nature  which  has  profited  by  her  pure  teachings,  and 
received  her  revelations — by  every  spirit  which  has  been  borne 
upward  by  her  aspirations,  or  softened  by  the  spring  breath,  the 
soft  warmth  and  light  of  her  love. 

To  woman  has  the  Swedish  novelist  spoken,  and  by  woman  must 
she  be  welcomed  and  honoured  here ;  but  to  the  men  of  America 
comes  one  whose  very  name  should  cause  the  blood  to  leap  along 
their  veins — he,  the  heart's  brother  of  freemen  all  over  the  world 
— the  patriot,  prophet,  and  soldier,  the  hero  of  the  age — Kossuth 
the  Hungarian ! 

How  will  he  be  received  here  ?  How  will  the  deep,  intense,  yet 
mournful  sympathy,  the  soul-felt  admiration,  the  generous  homage 
of  the  country,  find  expression  ?  Not  in  parades  and  dinners,  arid 
public  speeches,  for  Heaven's  sake  ! 

Would  you  feast  and  fete  a  man  on  whose  single  heart  is  laid 
the  dead,  crushing  weight  of  a  nation's  sorrow — about  whose  spirit 
a  nation's  despair  makes  deep,  perpetual  night  ? 

I  know  not  how  my  countrymen  will  meet  this  glorious  exile ; 
but  were  I  a  young  man,  with  all  the  early  love  and  fresh  enthu 
siasm  for  liberty  and  heroism,  I  would  bow  reverently,  and  silently 
kiss  his  hand.  Were  I  a  pure  and  tried  statesman,  an  honest 
patriot,  I  would  fold  him  to  my  breast.  Were  I  an  old  veteran, 


SARA  J.    CLARKE.  301 

with  the  fire  of  freedom  yet  warming  the  veins  whose  young  blood 
once  flowed  in  her  cause,  I  should  wish  to  look  on  Kossuth  and  die. 
Who  can  say  this  man  has  lived  in  vain  ?  Though  it  was  not 
his  to  strike  the  shackles  from  his  beloved  land,  till  she  should 
stand  free  and  mighty  before  Heaven,  has  he  not  struggled  and 
suffered  for  her?  Has  he  not  spoken  hallowed  and  immortal 
words — words  which  have  gone  forth  to  the  nations,  a  power  and  a 
prophecy,  which  shall  sound  on  and  on,  long  after  his  troubled  life 
is  past — on  and  on,  till  their  work  is  accomplished  in  great  deeds 
— and  the  deeds  become  history,  to  be  read  by  free  men  with 
quickened  breath,  and  eyes  that  lighten  with  exultation  ?  And  it 
is  a  great  thing  that  Europe,  darkened  by  superstition  and  crushed 
by  despotism,  has  known  another  hero — a  race  of  heroes,  I  might 
say,  for  the  Hungarian  uprising  has  been  a  startling  and  terrific 
spectacle  for  kings  and  emperors.  And  "the  end  is  not  yet." 
There  must  be  a  sure,  a  terrible  retribution  for  the  oppressors — a 
yet  more  fearful  finale  to  this  world-witnessed  tragedy.  While  the 
heavens  endure,  let  us  hold  on  to  the  faith  that  the  right  shall 
prevail  against  the  wrong,  when  the  last  long  struggle  shall  come, 
that  the  soul  of  freedom  is  imperishable,  and  shall  triumph  over  all 
oppressions  on  the  face  of  the  whole  earth. 


ANNE    C.   LYNCH. 


ANNE  CHARLOTTE  LYNCH  was  born  in  Bennington,  Vermont. 

Her  father  belonged  to  the  gallant  band  of"  United  Irishmen,"  who 
so  vainly  attempted  in  1798  to  achieve  the  independence  of  the  "  Emerald 
Isle."  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  against  the  protests,  and  even  commands 
of  his  father,  he  joined  the  rebels,  and,  with  many  others,  was  soon  made 
prisoner.  During  a  gloomy  imprisonment  of  four  years,  he  received  advan 
tageous  offers  of  liberty  and  a  commission  in  the  army,  if  he  would  take 
the  oath  of  allegiance.  These  offers  he  boldly  spurned,  and  at  the  age  of 
twenty,  with  Emmet,  McNeven,  and  other  illustrious  exiles,  came  to  the 
United  States.  He  married  a  daughter  of  Colonel  Gray,  and  finally  died 
in  Cuba,  where  he  had  gone  in  search  of  health. 

On  the  mother's  side,  also,  Miss  Lynch  has  patriot  blood  in  her  veins. 
Her  grandfather,  Lieutenant-Colonel  Gray,  of  the  6th  Regiment  of  the 
Connecticut  Line,  received  his  first  commission  in  January,  1776.  He 
was  appointed  Major  in  1777,  and  Lieutenant-Colonel  in  1778,  which 
rank  he  held  till  the  close  of  the  war.  He  served  in  the  army  of  the 
Revolution  during  the  whole  period  of  seven  years,  and  retired  at  the 
close  of  the  war  with  a  constitution  so  broken  down  by  the  fatigues  and 
hardships  he  had  undergone,  that  he  was  never  able  to  resume  the  duties 
of  his  profession,  and  he  died,  after  a  few  years,  of  a  lingering  disease, 
contracted  in  the  service,  leaving  his  family  entirely  destitute.  The 
widow  of  Colonel  Gray  petitioned  Congress  several  times  ineffectually  for 
relief.  The  petition  was  renewed  by  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Lynch,  in  1850, 
and,  through  the  tact  and  persuasive  eloquence  of  the  grand-daughter, 
finally  received  a  favourable  hearing,  even  amid  the  exciting  scenes  of  the 
Compromise  Congress. 

After  finishing  her  education,  which  was  at  a  female  seminary  of  some 
celebrity  in  Albany,  Miss  Lynch  lived  for  a  time  in  Providence,  Rhode 
Island.  There  she  published,  in  1841,  a  volume  entitled  the  "Rhode 

(302) 


ANNE   C.    LYNCH.  303 

Island  Book/'  consisting  of  selections  of  prose  and  verse  from  the  writers 
of  that  State,  and  including  several  pieces  of  her  own.  She  subsequently 
spent  some  time  in  Philadelphia,  where  her  poetical  abilities  attracted 
much  attention,  and  gained  for  her  the  friendship  and  encouragement  of 
many  persons  of  distinction ;  among  others,  of  Fanny  Kemble,  then  in 
the  zenith  of  her  popularity.  Several  of  her  poems  were  contributed  to 
the  "  Gift"  in  1845,  also  a  long  chapter  in  prose  called  "  Leaves  from  the 
Diary  of  a  Recluse." 

For  the  last  eight  or  nine  years  she  has  lived  in  the  city  of  New  York. 
In  this  period  she  has  contributed  to  the  current  literature  of  the  day,  both 
in  prose  and  verse.  A  collection  of  her  poems  was  published  in  1848,  in 
a  small  quarto,  elegantly  illustrated  with  original  designs  by  Huntington, 
Cheney,  Darley,  Durand,  Rothermel,  Rossiter,  Cushman,  Brown,  and 
Winner. 

The  combination  of  the  social  element  with  the  pursuits  of  literature 
and  art,  is  a  problem  to  which  Miss  Lynch  has  given  a  practical  solution, 
and  by  which  she  has  gained  her  chief  celebrity.  She  has  for  many  years 
opened  her  house  on  every  Saturday  evening  to  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
her  acquaintance,  connected  with  literature  or  the  fine  arts.  Men  and 
women  of  genius  here  meet,  very  much  as  merchants  meet  on  'Change, 
without  ceremony,  and  for  the  exchange  of  thought.  They  pass  together 
two  hours  in  conversation,  music,  song,  sometimes  recitation,  and  disperse 
without  eating  or  drinking,  nothing  in  the  shape  of  material  refreshment 
being  ever  offered.  At  no  place  of  concourse,  it  is  said,  is  one  so  sure  to 
see  the  leading  celebrities  of  the  town.  I  give  two  sketches  of  these 
soirees,  the  first  from  a  writer — evidently  a  woman — in  Neal's  Gazette, 
the  second  from  the  pen  of  Miss  Sedgwick  : 

"  At  her  brilliant  Saturday  evening  reunions  one  may  see  all  who  are 
in  any  way  distinguished  for  scientific,  artistic,  or  literary  attainments, 
mingled  with  a  band  of  fine  appreciating  spirits,  who  are  content  with  that 
power  of  appreciation,  and  whose  social  position  shows  at  once  the  high 
station  which  Miss  Lynch  has  won  by  her  merits  as  a  woman  and  a 
scholar. 

"  One  of  these  same  reunions  would  be  the  realization  of  many  a  school 
girl's  dream  of  happiness.  We  can  almost  see  the  young  neophyte  of 
authorland  nestled  in  some  sheltering  recess,  or  shrouded  by  benevolent 
drapery,  and  gazing  with  wonder  and  admiration  on  those  whose  words 
have  long  been  the  companions  of  her  solitary  hours. 

" '  Can  that  really  be  Mrs.  Osgood  ?'  she  would  exclaim,  as  a  light 
figure  glided  before  her  retirement. 

"  <  Is  that  truly  Mrs.  Oakes  Smith  on  the  sofa  beside  Mrs.  Hewitt  ? 
Grace  Greenwood !  how  I  have  longed  to  see  her,  and  Barley,  Willis, 
Bayard  Taylor,  ah  !  me,'  and  the  sweet  eyes  would  grow  weary  with 
watching  the  bright  constellation,  and  the  little  hands  clasp  each  other 


304  ANNE   C.   LYNCH. 

close — and  more  closely  still,  as  she  tried  to  realize  that  those  whom  she 
had  long  loved  were  in  truth  before  her. 

"Then  gliding  through  their  inidst,  calmly,  almost  proudly  in  her 
serene  repose,  is  the  hostess  herself.  Her  wavy  hair,  gathered  in  a 
braided  coronet,  her  mild,  blue  eyes  serenely  smiling,  and  at  once  thoughts 
of  Miss  Barret's  Lady  Geraldine  come  to  the  mind  of  the  gazer,  and  these 
words  to  her  parted  lips — 

"  For  her  eyes  alone  smiled  constantly ;  her  lips  had  serious  sweetness, 

And  her  front  was  calm — the  dimple  rarely  rippled  on  her  cheek ; 
But  her  deep  blue  eyes  smiled  constantly,  as  if  they  had  by  fitness 
The  secret  of  a  happy  dream  she  did  not  care  to  speak." 

"  There  is  a  warm  greeting  and  kind  word  for  all,  and  even  the  little 
trembler  in  the  window  curtain  does  not  start  as  she  kindly  addresses 
her." 

The  next  extract  is  from  Miss  Sedgwick,  written  in  the  character  of  a 
gentleman  on  a  visit  to  New  York. 

"  From  Mallark's,  I  passed  to  the  drawing-room  of  Miss  Lynch.  It 
was  her  reception  evening.  I  was  admitted  to  a  rather  dimly  lighted  hall 
by  a  little  portress,  some  ten  or  twelve  years  old,  who  led  me  to  a  small 
apartment  to  deposit  my  hat  and  cloak.  There  was  no  lighted  staircase, 
no  train  attendant,  none  of  the  common  flourish  at  city  parties.  'Up 
stairs,  if  you  please,  sir — front  room  for  the  ladies — back  for  the  gentle 
men  ','  no  indication  of  an  overturn  or  commotion  in  the  domestic  world ; 
no  cross  father,  worried  mother,  or  scolded  servants  behind  the  scenes — 
not  even  a  faint  resemblance  to  the  eating,  worrying,  and  tossing  of  <  the 
house  that  Jack  built.'  The  locomotive  was  evidently  not  off  the  track ; 
the  spheres  moved  harmoniously.  To  my  surprise,  when  I  entered,  I 
found  two  fair-sized  drawing-rooms  filled  with  guests,  in  a  high  state  of 
social  enjoyment.  There  was  music,  dancing,  recitation,  and  conversation. 
I  met  an  intimate  friend  there,  and  availing  myself  of  the  common  privilege 
of  a  stranger  in  town  I  inquired  out  the  company.  There  were  artists  in 
every  department — painting,  poetry,  sculpture,  and  music.  There  I  saw 
for  the  first  time  that  impersonation  of  genius,  Ole  Bull.  Even  the  his 
trionic  art  asserted  its  right  to  social  equality  there  in  the  person  of  one 
of  its  honourable  professors.  You  may  think  that  my  hostess,  for  one  so 
young  and  so  very  fair,  opened  her  doors  too  wide.  Perhaps  so,  for  though 
I  detest  the  duenna  system  and  believe  that  the  unguarded  freedom  per 
mitted  to  our  young  ladies  far  safer  as  well  as  more  agreeable,  yet  I  would 
rather  have  seen  the  mother  of  Miss  Lynch  present.  Certainly  no  one 
ever  needed  an  aegis  less  than  my  lovely  hostess.  She  has  that  quiet 
delicacy  and  dignity  of  manners  that  is  as  a  '  glittering  angel'  to  exorcise 
every  evil  spirit  that  should  venture  to  approach  her.  How,  without  for 
tune  or  fashion,  she  has  achieved  her  position  in  your  city,  where  every 
thing  goes  under  favour  of  these  divinities,  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell.  To 


ANNE  C.   LYNCH.  395 

be  sure,  she  has  that  aristocracy  which  supersedes  all  others — that  to 
which  prince  and  peasant  instinctively  bow — and  though  unknown  in  the 
fashionable  world,  you  would  as  soon  confound  the  exquisite  work  of  a 
Greek  sculptor  with  the  wax  figures  of  au  itinerant  showman?  as  degrade 
her  to  the  level  of  a  conventional  belle. 

"  Yet  she  does  not  open  her  house  as  a  temple  to  worshippers  of  whom 
she  is  the  divinity,  but  apparently  simply  to  afford  her  acquaintances  the 
hospitality  of  a  place  of  social  meeting.  She  retires  behind  her  guests, 
and  seems  to  desire  to  be  the  least  observed  of  all  observers. 

"I  had  supposed  that  war  might  as  well  be  carried  on  without  its 
munitions,  officers  as  well  live  without  their  salaries,  children  as  well  go 
to  bed  without  their  suppers,  as  a  party  to  go  off  without  its  material 
entertainment.  But  here  was  the  song  without  the  supper,  not  even  those 
poor  shadows  of  refreshments,  cakes  and  lemonade.  Here  was  a  young 
woman  without  (  position' — to  use  the  cant  phrase — without  any  relations 
to  the  fashionable  world,  filling  her  rooms  weekly  with  choice  spirits,  who 
came  without  any  extraordinary  expense  of  dress,  who  enjoyed  high  rational 
pleasures  for  two  or  three  hours,  and  retired  so  early  as  to  make  no  drafts 
on  the  health  or  spirits  of  the  next  day.  I  communicated  my  perplexity 
to  a  foreign  acquaintance  whom  I  met  at  Mrs.  Booth's. 

" l  Why/  said  he,  '  your  fair  friend  has  hit  upon  a  favourite  form  of 
society  common  in  the  highest  civilization.  Miss  Lynch's  soirees  are 
Parisian — only  not  in  Paris.  Not  in  the  world,  with  the  exception  of  the 
United  States,  could  a  beautiful  young  woman  take  the  responsibility 
unmatronized  of  such  a  '  reception.'  n 

FREDRIKA  BREMER. 

WHEN  it  was  announced,  a  few  months  since,  that  Fredrika 
Bremer  had  landed  upon  our  shores,  the  intelligence  was  received 
by  the  thousands  who  have  read  her  works,  with  an  interest  that 
admiration  of  literary  talent  or  genius  alone  could  never  have 
inspired.  More  than  almost  any  other  writer,  Miss  Bremer  seems 
to  have  become  a  personal  friend  to  every  reader,  and  the  cause 
of  this  is  to  be  found  in  a  far  deeper  source  than  mere  admiration 
for  the  novelty  and  vividness  of  her  narratives,  her  quiet  pictures 
of  domestic  life,  or  her  strong  delineations  of  the  workings  of 
human  passion.  Her  large  and  sympathetic  heart  is  attuned  to 
such  harmony  with  humanity,  or  rather  she  so  expresses  this  beau 
tiful  harmony  of  her  own  soul  with  God,  with  nature,  and  with 
humanity,  that  the  human  heart  that  has  suffered  or  enjoyed, 

39 


303  ANNE    C.    LYNCH. 

vibrates  and  responds  like  a  harp-string  to  the  master-hand.  She 
has  somewhere  said,  "  Hereafter,  when  I  no  more  belong  to  earth, 
I  should  love  to  return  to  it  as  a  spirit,  and  impart  to  man  the 
deepest  of  that  which  I  have  suffered  and  enjoyed,  lived  and  loved. 
And  no  one  need  fear  me; — should  I  come  in  the  midnight 
hour  to  a  striving  and  unquiet  spirit,  it  would  be  only  to  make  it 
more  quiet,  its  night-lamp  burn  more  brightly,  and  myself  its  friend 
and  sister."  Although  she  still  belongs  to  earth,  this  aspiration  has 
been  satisfied.  Even  here,  without  having  crossed  the  mysterious 
bourn,  she  has  revealed  to  us  great  depths  of  suffering  and  joy,  of 
life  and  love,  and  to  many  troubled  hearts  she  has  come  in  their 
midnight  hours,  a  friend,  a  sister,  a  consoler.  It  is  no  wonder, 
then,  that  homes  and  hearts  have  opened  to  her,  and  that  welcome 
and  gratitude  await  her  in  every  town  and  village  of  our  country. 

When  Miss  Bremer's  works  were  first  introduced  to  us  a  few 
years  ago,  the  brilliant  narrations  of  Scott  had  been  succeeded  by 
the  passionate  and  romantic  creations  of  Bulwer,  and  our  literature 
was  flooded  with  inundations  from  the  voluptuous  and  sensational 
school  of  France,  which  deposited  its  debris  and  diffused  its  malaria 
wherever  its  impure  waters  subsided.  At  this  period  the  writings 
of  Fredrika  Bremer  came  upon  us,  suddenly  and  beautiful  as 
summer  comes  in  her  northern  clime,  as  pure  and  sparkling  as  its 
mountain  streams,  as  fresh  and  invigorating  as  its  mountain  air. 

As  works  of  art,  or  in  a  literary  point  of  view,  these  novels  have 
doubtless  their  faults.  But  those  who  have  been  elevated  by  their 
ennobling  spirit,  who  have  drunk  at  their  clear,  cool  fountains,  and 
felt  their  strengthening  and  life-giving  influence,  who  have  dwelt 
with  her  lovely  characters  in  their  happy  homes,  and  participated 
in  their  joys  and  sorrows,  would  find  it  as  impossible  to  turn  upon 
them  the  cold  eye  of  the  critic,  as  to  analyze  the  sunshine  and  the 
landscape  that  delight  the  eye,  or  to  judge  the  features  of  a  beloved 
friend  by  the  strictest  rules  of  beauty  or  of  art.  The  office  of  the 
critic  has  come  to  be  in  literature  what  that  of  the  surgeon  is  in 
the  actual  world.  With  perfect  development,  beauty,  and  harmony, 
he  has  nothing  to  do.  He  has  eyes  only  for  deformities  and  faults, 
and  wherever  they  are  to  be  found,  he  applies  his  merciless  scalpel, 


ANNE   C.   LYNCH.  307 

with  a  firm  hand  and  an  unrelenting  heart.  But  the  critic  who 
judges  by  rules  of  art  alone,  does  not  give  us  the  highest  truth  any 
more  than  the  chemist,  who,  while  he  shows  us  how  to  analyze  the 
diamond  and  to  resolve  it  to  its  original  elements,  forgets  to  place 
it  before  us  flashing  in  the  sunlight ;  or  the  botanist  who,  in  dis 
secting  the  flower,  leaves  its  beauty  to  pass  unnoticed,  and  its  per 
fume  to  escape.  Mere  criticism  is  the  judgment  of  the  intellect 
alone ;  but  the  highest  and  truest  judgment  is  that  where  the  heart 
also  has  a  voice,  and  an  object  seen  through  the  one  or  the  other 
medium,  intellect  or  heart,  is  like  those  transparencies  which  in  one 
light  represent  the  dreary  desolation  of  a  winter  landscape,  and  in 
the  other,  all  the  luxuriance  and  beauty  of  summer. 

The  age  in  which  we  live  is  one  of  scepticism,  of  analysis,  and 
of  transition.  Religion,  government,  society,  are  all  in  turn  inves 
tigated  by  its  indomitable  spirit  of  inquiry.  All  great  questions 
relating  to  humanity,  its  reform,  its  progress,  and  its  final  destiny, 
are  agitated  to  a  degree  not  known  before  at  any  period  of  the 
world's  history.  The  conservative  and  destructive  principles  are 
at  war,  and  there  are  moments  when  those  of  the  firmest  faith  seem 
to  doubt  what  the  final  issue  of  the  contest  may  be.  The  litera 
ture,  as  could  not  fail  to  be  the  case,  takes  its  tone  from  the  spirit 
of  the  age,  and  no  department  of  literature  has  more  direct  bearing 
upon  the  popular  mind  than  that  of  fiction.  He  who  writes  the 
songs  and  romances  of  a  people  may  well  leave  to  others  to  make 
their  laws.  Not,  indeed,  those  lighter  romances,  intended  only  to 
interest  or  amuse  the  fancy,  but  those  which  embody  some  deep 
sentiment,  or  some  vital  principle  of  society  or  of  religion.  Truths 
and  principles  thus  inculcated  or  diffused,  have  their  most  direct 
influence  upon  the  youthful  mind,  and,  like  the  impressions  made 
upon  the  rock  in  its  transition  state,  they  harden  and  remain. 

As  an  instance  of  the  extent  of  this  influence  of  fiction,  we  may 
refer  to  the  writings  of  that  woman,  who,  possessing  the  most  ex 
traordinary  combination  of  masculine  and  feminine  qualities  under 
the  name  of  George  Sand,  for  the  last  few  years  has  taken  the 
first  rank  among  the  writers  of  her  native  language,  and  from  that 
eminence  has  exercised  such  incalculable  influence,  not  only  over 


308  ANNE   C.    LYNCH. 

her  own  but  all  other  countries.  George  Sand  and  Fredrika  Bre- 
mer  stand  at  the  head  of  two  widely  different  classes  of  fictitious 
writing,  each  having  other  and  higher  objects  than  to  amuse. 
Through  the  writings  of  both  there  is  a  deep  and  powerful  under 
current,  to  which  the  story  is  but  the  sparkle  on  the  surface.  Both 
discuss  great  questions  of  social  reform,  the  laws  of  marriage,  and 
the  nature  of  love.  Both  enter  the  temple  of  humanity — but  the 
one  to  overthrow  its  altars,  and  to  shatter  its  cherished  images — 
the  other  to  render  them  more  firm  and  steadfast — to  burn  incense 
on  the  shrines,  and  adorn  them  with  garlands  of  immortal  flowers. 
The  genius  of  the  one  is  the  flaming  torch  of  the  incendiary,  that 
carries  destruction  and  desolation  in  its  course — that  of  the  other 
is  the  fragrant  lamp,  that  illumines  the  darkness,  and  dispels,  by 
its  steady  and  benignant  beams,  the  gathering  and  mysterious 
gloom.  The  course  of  the  one  has  been  like  that  of  the  furious 
tempest  of  the  tropical  regions,  that  uproots  the  old  landmarks, 
floods  the  gentle  streams  till  they  overflow  their  channels,  and 
sweep  away  banks,  bridges,  and  barriers  that  oppose  their  course; 
that  of  the  other,  like  the  evening  dews  and  the  summer  showers, 
that  sink  softly  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  refreshing,  gladdening, 
and  fertilizing. 

The  institution  of  marriage,  the  root  from  which  society  springs, 
the  groundwork  upon  which  it  stands,  George  Sand,  with  all  the 
force  of  her  genius  and  eloquence,  seeks  to  degrade  and  to  destroy ; 
while  Fredrika  Bremer  would  ennoble,  not  the  institution  of  mar 
riage  only,  but  she  would  exalt  it  into  that  deeper  and  holier  spirit 
ual  union,  of  which  the  actual  marriage  is  but  the  symbol.  Love, 
that  most  divine  of  all  our  sentiments,  the  bloom  and  perfume  of 
the  tree  of  Life,  the  sun  that  lights  and  gladdens  the  night  of 
existence,  the  one  presents  to  us  as  burning  with  all  the  voluptuous 
ardour  of  the  senses,  the  other,  as  glowing  with  the  sacred  fire  of 
the  impassioned  soul. 

It  seems  to  be  a  law  of  Providence,  that  good  and  evil  should 
ever  co-exist,  both  in  the  outer  and  inner  world ;  that  wherever 
poisons  abound,  the  antidotes  are  also  to  be  found ;  and  the  contem 
poraneous  appearance  of  the  two  leading  minds  we  have  been  con- 


ANNE  C.    LYNCH.  309 

trasting,  is  an  instance  of  the  verification  of  this  law  in  the  intel 
lectual  or  moral  world.  Some  one  has  truly  said,  that  "  where 
nothing  great  is  to  be  done,  the  existence  of  great  men  is  impossi 
ble."  Goodness  is  only  one  form  of  greatness,  and  in  opposing 
the  influence  of  the  materializing  and  disorganizing  school  of  French 
romances,  there  was  a  great  good  to  be  attained ;  and  by  Miss 
Bremer,  and  the  class  of  writers  of  which  she  stands  at  the  head, 
it  has  been  in  a  measure  accomplished ;  for  there  is  another  law 
of  Providence  which  secures  the  final  triumph  of  good  over  evil, 
and  renders  the  contest  not  doubtful  in  the  end,  although  it  may 
be  of  long  duration. 

Besides  the  French  school  of  romance  writers,  there  is  another, 
to  which  the  works  of  Miss  Bremer  offer  an  equally  salutary  anti 
dote.  We  refer  to  those  who,  with  contempt  in  their  hearts,  and 
bitterness  and  sarcasm  on  their  lips,  go  through  the  world  like 
Mephistopheles,  only  to  sneer  at  the  weaknesses  of  humanity,  to 
magnify  its  errors,  and  to  question  or  despise  its  virtues,  and  who, 
like  certain  birds  of  prey,  seem  to  be  attracted  only  by  that  which 
is  in  its  nature  offensive.  The  mischief  of  such  works  is,  that  they 
lower  the  standard  of  human  excellence,  they  unsettle  our  faith  in 
human  nature,  and  they  engender  a  sceptical  and  contemptuous 
spirit,  that  as  fatally  extinguishes  the  higher  virtues  and  aspira 
tions,  as  fire-damp  extinguishes  the  miner's  lamp.  Goethe  has 
somewhere  said  that  if  we  would  make  men  better,  we  must  treat 
them  as  if  they  were  better  than  they  are ;  if  we  take  them  at 
their  actual  level  we  make  them  worse ;  much  more  then  do  we 
render  them  worse  when  we  put  them  below  their  actual  level,  pre 
serving,  though  caricaturing  the  likeness. 

The  characters  Miss  Bremer  has  drawn,  while  they  are  free  from 
this  charge,  do  not  on  the  other  hand  fall  into  the  opposite  error  of 
being  too  favourably  depicted.  They  represent  human  nature  as 
it  often  is,  as  it  is  always  capable  of  being,  refined,  elevated,  and 
noble.  The  home  affections  that  she  so  vividly  portrays,  though 
originating  in  the  domestic  circle,  radiate  from  that  centre  until 
they  encompass  all  that  live  and  suffer,  genial  as  the  sun,  and 
embracing  as  the  atmosphere ;  and,  like  the  sun  and  air  in  the 


310  ANNE   C.    LYNCH. 

outward  world,  they  call  forth  the  verdure  and  bloom  of  the  inner 
life  in  all  those  whom  they  thus  enfold. 

It  may  be  objected  that  we  assign  too  great  an  influence,  too 
prominent  a  position,  to  these  creations  of  the  imagination,  pre 
sented  to  us  on  the  pages  of  fiction.  But  fiction,  in  its  action  on 
the  mind,  has  all  the  effect  of  history ;  it  has  even  an  advantage 
over  history.  Since  the  one  gives  but  the  outward  and  apparent 
life,  while  the  other  enters  the  secret  recesses  of  the  heart,  unveils 
the  hidden  springs  of  motive  and  of  action,  and  lays  open  to  our 
view,  what  no  history  and  no  confessions  ever  do,  the  secret  work 
ings  of  the  human  soul,  that  most  mysterious  and  complicated  of 
all  the  works  of  God.  Into  these  "  beings  of  the  mind,"  the  writer 
of  fiction,  like  the  sculptor  of  old,  breathes  life,  thought,  and  immor 
tality,  and  they  become  to  us  positive  existences.  Lear  and  Cor 
delia,  Othello  and  Desdemona,  Ivanhoe  and  Kebecca,  are  as  much 
realities  as  if  they  had  dwelt  upon  the  earth,  and  their  lives  had 
come  down  to  us  beside  those  of  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  history. 
So  it  is  with  the  characters  Miss  Bremer  has  drawn.  We  are  as 
familiar  with  Bear  and  his  little  wife,  as  if  we  had  dwelt  with  them 
at  their  cottage-home  of  Rosenvik.  We  shrink  before  the  iron  will 
and  the  imperious  commands  of  Ma  chere  mere,  and  shudder  to 
encounter  the  dark  form  and  the  lowering  glance  of  the  fierce 
Bruno. 

If,  then,  fiction  in  its  effects  is  to  be  regarded  as  possessing  equal 
power  with  history,  it  becomes  a  more  important  feature,  not  only 
in  literature,  but  in  morals,  and  should  occupy  a  higher  place  than 
has  been  assigned  to  it,  and  those  who  people  the  world  with  these 
airy  yet  actual  beings,  and  present  to  us  in  them  ideals  to  contem 
plate  and  to  imitate,  should  be  regarded  as  the  benefactors  of  men. 
And  so,  indeed,  it  has  been  with  her  who  is  the  subject  of  this  brief 
sketch.  Her  works  have  gone  abroad  on  their  message  of  peace 
and  love  over  the  civilized  world,  and  her  fame  has  resounded  far 
and  wide,  till  its  echo  returned  to  her  native  land.  Fame,  as  it  is 
generally  understood,  however,  is  but  a  poor  expression  of  the 
relation  that  exists  between  Miss  Bremer  and  her  world  of  readers  ; 
it  is  but  the  outward  fact  of  the  deep,  spiritual  relation  she  bears 


ANNE   C.    LYNCH.  311 

to  them  all ;  for  each  one  receives  from  her  some  direct  rays,  as 
the  wavelets  of  the  lake,  lying  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  receive 
each  some  beam  of  her  silver  light. 

As  to  Miss  Bremer's  future,  we  do  not  consider  her  course  by 
any  means  as  ended.  We  know  that  in  her  works,  as  in  her  life, 
she  aspires  to  that  ascending  metamorphosis,  without  which  the 
normal  development  of  life  is  not  accomplished.  We  know  that 
she  aspires  to  put  the  romance  of  individual  life  in  closer  connexion 
with  the  great  romance  of  humanity,  and  that  her  present  visit  to 
the  New  World  is  connected  with  this  view.  We  know  that  through 
the  impressions  here  received,  she  hopes  to  realize  and  to  give 
expression  to  ardent  hopes  and  long-cherished  visions.  We  know 
that  "  the  light  of  her  life's  day,  like  that  of  the  morning,  will  be 
an  ascending  one,  and  that  whether  its  beam  shine  through  mist  or 
through  clear  air,  that  the  day  will  increase — the  life  will  brighten." 


314  MARY   E.    HEWITT. 

upon  the  moonlit  scene,  and  thinking  with  a  dread  foreboding  of 
the  morrow,  which  might  separate  her  for  ever  from  the  one  she 
loved,  and  consign  her  to  a  hateful  existence  with  Conrigh. 

The  walls  of  the  apartment  were  hung  with  tapestry  representing 
the  landing  of  Heremon  and  Heber,  and  the  contests  of  the  Dano- 
nians  with  their  Milesian  invaders.  The  floor  was  strewn  with 
fresh  rushes,  and  the  few  articles  of  furniture  scattered  throughout 
the  room,  were  as  rude  in  design  and  workmanship  as  the  age  to 
which  they  belonged.  An  embroidery  frame  was  placed  in  one 
corner,  and  near  it  a  small  harp,  such  as  was  used  by  ladies  of  the 
time,  rested  against  a  low  table. 

Without  the  tower  lay  the  moonlit  sward,  the  glittering  river 
winding  away  among  the  woody  hills,  the  rude  castle  of  the  chief 
tain,  and  the  mud  hovel  of  the  peasant,  where  from  the  windows  of 
each  gleamed  out  the  festal  torch  and  the  fire  light. 

But  the  sound  of  mirth  had  ceased  in  the  palace  of  Tara,  and 
the  lights  had  gone  out  one  by  one  from  the  distant  dwellings,  and 
still  Brehilda  sat  at  the  narrow  window,  communing  with  her  own 
sad  heart.  She  was  very  beautiful  as  she  sat  there  in  her  grief, 
with  her  fair  hair,  that  had  escaped  from  its  fillet,  falling  in  ripples 
of  gold  over  her  green,  embroidered  kirtle  almost  to  the  border  of 
the  white  garment  beneath  it.  Her  small  hands  clasped,  rested 
upon  her  lap,  and  her  full  blue  eyes  were  turned  tearfully  upward, 
as  if  she  were  invoking  the  One  great  Principle  of  the  universe, 
whose  worship  the  Druids  taught,  to  strengthen  the  arm  of  her 
lover  and  save  her  from  the  fate  she  would  rather  die  than  meet. 
The  moon  was  now  slowly  descending  behind  the  distant  hills,  and 
all  nature  reposed  in  silence,  when  the  strings  of  a  harp  lightly 
touched,  sounded  from  a  grove  not  far  off,  and  a  full,  manly  voice 
sang  the  following  words: 

Doubt  not  my  steed — he  hath  breasted  the  water, 
When  the  torrent  came  down  from  the  hills  in  its  might ; 

And  with  white,  flowing  mane,  deeply  reddened  in  slaughter, 
He  hath  borne  me  in  battle,  nor  shrank  from  the  fight. 

Doubt  not  my  lance — a  young  mountain  scion, 
It  grew  'mid  the  storm,  rooted  fast  to  the  rock ; 


MARY    E.   HEWITT.  315 

Its  point  knows  the  sound  of  a  breastplate  of  iron, 
And  gladly  it  springs,  like  my  steed,  to  the  shock. 

Doubt  not  my  arm  in  the  combat  will  serve  me — 

My  bard  sings  the  deeds  of  his  chieftain,  with  pride ; 
And  the  strength  of  a  legion  to-morrow  will  nerve  me 

To  conquer  in  battle,  and  win  thee  my  bride. 
Doubt  not  my  heart,  in  its  truth,  here  repeating 

That  thou  art  its  life-pulse — the  throb  of  my  breast — 
And  never  till  death  stops  my  bosom's  swift  beating, 

In  the  cold  narrow  house,  will  thy  thought  be  at  rest. 

Springing  to  her  feet  at  the  first  sound  of  the  voice,  every  fea 
ture  of  her  beautiful  face  lighted  up  with  intense  joy,  she  stood 
like  a  young  pythoness  filled  with  the  oracle,  and  extended  her 
arms  toward  a  figure  arrayed  in  the  long,  fringed  colchal  of  a  bard, 
that  now  emerged  from  the  grove,  and  whom  her  heart  told  her 
truly  could  be  no  other  than  Maon.  Casting  back  the  hood  from 
his  face,  he  stood  revealed  in  the  waning  moonlight,  and  raising 
his  hand  to  his  lips,  then  waving  it  upward  in  parting  salutation  to 
the  maiden,  he  again  entered  the  grove  and  disappeared;  and 
Brehilda,  strengthened  by  the  words  of  his  song,  and  reassured  by 
his  presence,  retired  to  her  couch,  and  soon  in  sweet  slumber  forgot 
the  cares  that  oppressed  her  heart. 

The  morrow,  like  all  dreaded  to-morrows,  dawned  brightly. 
The  combat  was  to  take  place  early  in  the  day,  and  the  field  had 
been  prepared  for  the  rivals  and  those  who  were  to  witness  the 
contest.  The  thrones  of  the  Irish  monarch  and  the  kings  of  the 
four  provinces  were  arranged  much  in  the  same  manner  as  in  the 
hall  of  legislation,  save  that  the  King  of  Connaught  had  his  place 
on  the  left  of  the  King  of  Munster,  while  platforms  or  galleries 
were  erected  on  either  side  for  the  accommodation  of  spectators. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  a  trial  of  arms  in  that  remote  time 
was  conducted  with  the  order  and  magnificence  of  the  more  modern 
tournament ;  but  still  the  field  was  not  wanting  in  much  of  the 
material  that  served  to  make  up  the  display  of  that  after  period. 
The  seats  around  the  arena  were  now  filling  to  their  utmost  extent 
and  capacity.  There  were  nobles  and  knights,  and  esquires  bearing 
the  shields  of  their  chiefs  ;  and  to  the  several  orders  of  bards  assem- 


316  MARY    E.   HEWITT. 

bled  for  the  convention  of  the  states  were  assigned  conspicuous 
places  in  the  enclosure.  Each  king,  robed  in  the  colours  appro 
priate  to  royalty,  occupied  the  throne  prepared  for  him,  seated 
beneath  his  own  banner,  and  in  a  gallery  behind  the  throne  of 
Ollamh  sat  Brehilda,  arrayed  like  a  noble  Irish  maiden,  pale  as 
sculptured  marble,  surrounded  by  the  principal  ladies  of  the 
monarch's  court. 

At  a  loud  blast  of  the  corna  the  combatants  entered  the  arena 
from  opposite  sides  of  the  field.  They  were  noble  in  appearance, 
well  matched  in  size,  and  sat  their  chafing  steeds  as  firmly  as  the 
Thessalian  riders  whose  horsemanship  gave  birth  to  the  fabled 
Centaurs.  Each  warrior  was  arrayed  in  the  rude  and  defective 
armour  of  the  time — the  head  covered  with  the  head-piece  of  iron, 
which  at  that  period  had  neither  crest  nor  vizor.  The  right  hand 
bore  a  lance,  the  left  arm  a  buckler,  while  an  iron  maul,  powerful 
as  the  hammer  of  the  northern  Thunder  God,  hung  pendent  at 
each  saddle-bow,  for  the  battle-axe  was  then  unknown  in  warfare. 
Eager  for  the  conflict,  at  a  signal  from  the  herald  they  sprang  to 
the  encounter,  and  for  a  long  time  the  victory  seemed  doubtful ; 
but  the  lance  of  Conrigh  splintered  against  the  shield  of  Maon, 
and  each  unslung  the  ponderous  maul,  and  poising  it  aloft,  again 
spurred  to  the  contest. 

With  hushed  heart  and  dilated  eyes  Brehilda  gazed  upon  the 
scene.  A  moment  of  intense  bewilderment,  and  she  sank  in  a 
death-like  swoon  upon  the  floor  of  the  gallery,  for  Maon  lay 
stunned  upon  the  field,  beneath  his  prostrate  steed.  The  shout 
that  hailed  the  victor  was  unheard  by  the  maiden  as  they  bore  her 
from  the  throng,  and  placed  her  insensible  form  upon  the  couch  in 
her  tower. 

But  the  festival  was  over.  The  solemn  feast  in  the  temple  of 
Yiachto  had  been  partaken  of — the  great  fire  of  Samhuin  had  been 
lighted,  and  the  Deity  invoked  to  bless  their  national  counsels,  and 
Conrigh  had  departed  to  his  castle  on  the  river  Fionglasse,  in  the 
county  of  Kerry,  where  he  dwelt  in  all  the  barbarism  of  feudal 
magnificence,  bearing  with  him  his  bride,  the  wretched  Brehilda. 

Neither  the  devotion  of  her  lord,  nor  the  splendour  that  sur- 


MARY  E.  HEWITT.  317 

rounded  her,  could  console,  or  render  the  new-made  wife  contented 
with  her  lot.  She  envied  the  peasant  maidens  who  milked  the 
kine  beyond  her  window,  free  to  love  where  the  heart  prompted 
and  to  wed  where  they  loved — and  her  daily  prayer  to  Dhia,  the 
great  Creator  of  all  things,  was  that  her  spirit  might  be  permitted 
to  enter  the  flowery  fields,  and  dwell  in  the  airy  halls  of  Flathinnis, 
the  Druidical  heaven,  with  those  beloved  who  had  gone  before. 

The  winter  was  ended,  and  the  festival  of  Beil  Tinne  was  at 
hand.  All  nature  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  season  of  the  returning 
sun,  and  Brehilda,  to  whom  the  brightness  of  spring  brought  no 
joy,  wandered  alone  on  the  banks  of  the  Fionglasse.  The  birds  sang 
upward  to  the  highest  heaven,  and  the  over-hanging  trees  waved 
their  fresh  green  leaves  to  the  rippling  water.  Brehilda  seated  her 
self  listlessly  beside  the  stream,  and  anon  the  following  song  from 
her  lips,  in  a  subdued  voice,  sounded  tunefully  over  the  waters. 

They  have  parted  for  ever 

Our  hearts'  rosy  chain, 
And  bound  me,  all  helpless, 

To  a  love  I  disdain. 
They  have  ruthless  bereft  us 

Of  the  fond  hope  of  years, 
And  given  my  young  life 

To  sorrow  and  tears. 

Yet  my  heart,  Oh  Beloved, 

To  thy  memory  clings, 
As  the  bird  o'er  her  nestling 

Folds  closely  her  wings. 
The  dark  clouds  may  gather 

Aloft  in  the  sky, 
And  the  tempest  toss  wildly 

The  branches  on  high ; 

But  faithful  and  fond, 

With  her  young  'neath  her  breast, 
Still  fearlessly  cleaveth 

The  bird  to  her  nest. 
And  thus,  though  in  peril, 

And  secret  it  be, 
Oh!  Bird  of  my  breast ! 

Clings  my  true  heart  to  thee. 


316  MARY    E.   HEWITT. 

bled  for  the  convention  of  the  states  were  assigned  conspicuous 
places  in  the  enclosure.  Each  king,  robed  in  the  colours  appro 
priate  to  royalty,  occupied  the  throne  prepared  for  him,  seated 
beneath  his  own  banner,  and  in  a  gallery  behind  the  throne  of 
Ollamh  sat  Brehilda,  arrayed  like  a  noble  Irish  maiden,  pale  as 
sculptured  marble,  surrounded  by  the  principal  ladies  of  the 
monarch's  court. 

At  a,  loud  blast  of  the  coma  the  combatants  entered  the  arena 
from  opposite  sides  of  the  field.  They  were  noble  in  appearance, 
well  matched  in  size,  and  sat  their  chafing  steeds  as  firmly  as  the 
Thessalian  riders  whose  horsemanship  gave  birth  to  the  fabled 
Centaurs.  Each  warrior  was  arrayed  in  the  rude  and  defective 
armour  of  the  time — the  head  covered  with  the  head-piece  of  iron, 
which  at  that  period  had  neither  crest  nor  vizor.  The  right  hand 
bore  a  lance,  the  left  arm  a  buckler,  while  an  iron  maul,  powerful 
as  the  hammer  of  the  northern  Thunder  God,  hung  pendent  at 
each  saddle-bow,  for  the  battle-axe  was  then  unknown  in  warfare. 
Eager  for  the  conflict,  at  a  signal  from  the  herald  they  sprang  to 
the  encounter,  and  for  a  long  time  the  victory  seemed  doubtful ; 
but  the  lance  of  Conrigh  splintered  against  the  shield  of  Maon, 
and  each  unslung  the  ponderous  maul,  and  poising  it  aloft,  again 
spurred  to  the  contest. 

With  hushed  heart  and  dilated  eyes  Brehilda  gazed  upon  the 
scene.  A  moment  of  intense  bewilderment,  and  she  sank  in  a 
death-like  swoon  upon  the  floor  of  the  gallery,  for  Maon  lay 
stunned  upon  the  field,  beneath  his  prostrate  steed.  The  shout 
that  hailed  the  victor  was  unheard  by  the  maiden  as  they  bore  her 
from  the  throng,  and  placed  her  insensible  form  upon  the  couch  in 
her  tower. 

But  the  festival  was  over.  The  solemn  feast  in  the  temple  of 
Yiachto  had  been  partaken  of — the  great  fire  of  Samhuin  had  been 
lighted,  and  the  Deity  invoked  to  bless  their  national  counsels,  and 
Conrigh  had  departed  to  his  castle  on  the  river  Fionglasse,  in  the 
county  of  Kerry,  where  he  dwelt  in  all  the  barbarism  of  feudal 
magnificence,  bearing  with  him  his  bride,  the  wretched  Brehilda. 

Neither  the  devotion  of  her  lord,  nor  the  splendour  that  sur- 


MARY  E.   HEWITT.  317 

rounded  her,  could  console,  or  render  the  new-made  wife  contented 
with  her  lot.  She  envied  the  peasant  maidens  who  milked  the 
kine  beyond  her  window,  free  to  love  where  the  heart  prompted 
and  to  wed  where  they  loved — and  her  daily  prayer  to  Dhia,  the 
great  Creator  of  all  things,  was  that  her  spirit  might  be  permitted 
to  enter  the  flowery  fields,  and  dwell  in  the  airy  halls  of  Flathinnis, 
the  Druidical  heaven,  with  those  beloved  who  had  gone  before. 

The  winter  was  ended,  and  the  festival  of  Beil  Tinne  was  at 
hand.  All  nature  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  season  of  the  returning 
sun,  and  Brehilda,  to  whom  the  brightness  of  spring  brought  no 
joy,  wandered  alone  on  the  banks  of  the  Fionglasse.  The  birds  sang 
upward  to  the  highest  heaven,  and  the  over-hanging  trees  waved 
their  fresh  green  leaves  to  the  rippling  water.  Brehilda  seated  her 
self  listlessly  beside  the  stream,  and  anon  the  following  song  from 
her  lips,  in  a  subdued  voice,  sounded  tunefully  over  the  waters. 

They  have  parted  for  ever 

Our  hearts'  rosy  chain, 
And  bound  me,  all  helpless, 

To  a  love  I  disdain. 
They  have  ruthless  bereft  us 

Of  the  fond  hope  of  years, 
And  given  my  young  life 

To  sorrow  and  tears. 

Yet  my  heart,  Oh  Beloved, 

To  thy  memory  clings, 
As  the  bird  o'er  her  nestling 

Folds  closely  her  wings. 
The  dark  clouds  may  gather 

Aloft  in  the  sky, 
And  the  tempest  toss  wildly 

The  branches  on  high ; 

But  faithful  and  fond, 

With  her  young  'neath  her  breast, 
Still  fearlessly  cleaveth 

The  bird  to  her  nest. 
And  thus,  though  in  peril, 

And  secret  it  be, 
Oh!  Bird  of  my  breast! 

Clings  my  true  heart  to  thee. 


318  MARY   E.    HEWITT. 

Scarcely  was  the  song  finished  when  a  light  skiff,  made  of  hide 
stretched  over  a  frame  of  wicker,  propelled  by  a  single  oarsman, 
shot  out  from  beyond  a  clump  of  alders,  and  swiftly  approached 
the  river's  bank.  Touching  the  earth  lightly  with  his  oar,  the 
boatman  leaped  to  land  almost  at  the  feet  of  Brehilda.  He  was 
clad  in  the  simple  garb  of  a  peasant,  and  Brehilda,  alarmed  at  the 
act  of  the  stranger,  would  have  fled,  but  a  motion  of  his  hand 
restrained  her,  and  the  next  moment  she  lay  panting  and  sobbing 
on  the  bosom  of  Maon. 

Their  interview  was  long,  and  passionate  their  communing,  and 
at  length  the  lovers  parted.  Maon  again  embarked  on  the  Fion- 
glasse,  and  Brehilda  returned  to  the  castle. 

In  those  early  days,  when  war  and  glory  were  the  theme  of 
song,  acts  of  violence  and  bloodshed  were  frequent,  and  revenge 
followed  fast  upon  wrong ;  for  the  light  of  revelation  had  not  yet 
dawned  upon  the  world  that  knew  no  return  for  injury  but  retri 
bution. 

It  was  the  first  of  May,  and  the  day  of  the  festival  of  Beil 
Tinne.  Fires  were  lighted,  and  sacrifices  were  offered  on  the 
most  lofty  eminences  in  every  part  of  the  kingdom  to  Beil,  or  the 
Sun.  The  Druids  danced  around  their  round  towers  the  sacred 
dance  of  their  profession,  as  was  the  custom  of  this  priesthood 
during  the  religious  festivals  of  the  nation ;  and  the  martial  follow 
ers  of  the  chiefs  joined  in  the  Binkey,  or  field-dance — a  perform 
ance  not  unlike  the  armed  dance  with  which  the  Greek  youth 
amused  themselves  at  the  siege  of  Troy — to  the  sound  of  the  bag 
pipes,  upon  the  green-sward. 

A  stranger  bard  feasted  that  night  in  the  hall  of  Conrigh,  with 
the  guests  and  retainers  of  the  chieftain.  He  wore  the  truise  of 
weft,  which  covered  the  feet,  legs,  and  thighs,  as  far  as  the  loins, 
striped  with  various  colours,  and  fitting  so  closely  as  to  discover 
every  motion  and  muscle  of  the  limbs ;  and  the  cotaigh,  or  tunic 
of  linen,  dyed  yellow,  and  ornamented  with  needle-work,  reaching 
to  the  mid-thigh,  and  confined  around  the  loins  by  an  embroidered 
girdle.  The  sleeves  of  this  garment  were  loose  and  long,  and  the 
bosom  was  cut  round,  leaving  the  neck  and  upper  part  of  the 


MARY  E.   HEWITT.  319 

shoulders  bare.  His  beard  was  long,  and  his  hair  flowed  over  his 
neck  and  shoulders  in  wavy  luxuriance.  Thus  arrayed  in  the 
picturesque  habit  allowed  to  that  order  of  men  whose  persons  were 
held  sacred  everywhere  throughout  the  kingdom,  he  was  one  of 
those  noble  specimens  of  manly  beauty  formed  to  awaken  the 
interest  and  admiration  of  all  beholders. 

Meadh  foamed  at  the  board — the  bards  sang  "the  days  of  other 
years,"  nor  was  the  theme  of  love  held  unmeet  for  so  joyous  an 
occasion — the  harp  was  passed  round  from  hand  to  hand  among 
the  guests,  each  one  contributing  his  portion  of  song  to  enliven 
the  feast,  and  the  unknown  bard,  in  his  turn  taking  the  instru 
ment,  struck  the  chords  loudly ;  and  while  Brehilda,  who  was  seated 
near  her  lord,  listened,  trembling  and  pale  with  apprehension  lest 
the  intruder  should  be  discovered  beneath  the  disguise  which  the 
eyes  of  love  had  already  penetrated,  he  sang — 

The  dove  was  the  falcon's  love, 

The  dove  with  her  tender  breast; 
Ah !  weary  the  fate  that  gave 

The  dove  to  the  kite's  vile  nest ! 
The  moon  from  yon  cloud  to-night 

Looks  down  on  the  feast  of  shells ; 
Oh,  marked  she  the  falcon's  flight 

For  the  home  where  his  own  dove  dwells  ? 

There's  a  veil  o'er  my  harp's  true  strings, 

There's  a  cloud  o'er  the  fair  moon's  breast; 
And  the  falcon,  with  outspread  wings, 

Hangs  o'er  the  kite's  vile  nest. 
The  famishing  birds  of  prey, 

Are  hurrying  through  the  night, 
But  the  dove  with  her  falcon  love 

Will  have  flown  ere  the  morning  light ! 

The  feast  flowed  on,  uninterrupted  by  aught  but  song ;  and  at  a 
late  hour  the  revellers  retired  from  the  banquet  to  their  apartments 
in  the  castle. 

It  was  long  after  midnight,  when  the  sleepers  were  aroused  from 
their  slumbers  by  the  sound  of  conflict  in  the  hall  below.  Hastily 
dressed,  and  half  armed,  they  rushed  forth  from  their  apartments 
to  meet  the  swords  of  their  unknown  assailants.  Wildly  the  contest 


320  MAKY   E.    HEWITT. 

raged,  and  everywhere  was  seen  the  strange  hard,  encouraging  the 
intruders,  until  at  length  in  the  affray  he  encountered  Conrigh, 
and  casting  off  the  false  heard  that  disguised  him,  they  stood  face 
to  face  amid  the  comhat — the  hushand  and  the  lover  of  Brehilda. 
They  fought  with  all  the  terrible  hate  that  animated  them,  and 
Conrigh  fell,  pierced  with  many  wounds,  beneath  the  sword  of  his 
adversary.  A  brief  moment,  and  Maon,  bearing  the  insensible 
form  of  Brehilda,  passed  swiftly  through  the  hall  and  out  at  the 
portal.  Mounting  a  strong  steed,  while  the  assailants  continued 
their  work  of  blood,  and  placing  her  for  whom  he  had  wrought  the 
night's  sacrifice,  before  him,  he  fled  with  all  speed  toward  the  court 
of  Conquovar  Mac  Nessa,  King  of  Ulster. 

This  wise  and  munificent  king  was  a  patron  of  the  learned,  and 
in  his  court  the  unfortunate  and  the  proscribed  found  an  asylum 
and  a  mediator.  Morning  dawned  as  Maon  paused  in  his  flight 
beside  a  running  spring,  and  alighted  with  his  unconscious  burthen. 
He  sprinkled  her  brow  with  the  cool  lymph,  and  filling  the  korn — 
the  cup  sacred  to  the  deity  of  the  earth  and  the  waters,  suspended 
from  the  overhanging  branch  of  a  tree — he  raised  the  draught  to 
her  lips.  Who  can  describe  the  rapture  of  Brehilda,  on  awaking 
from  her  long  trance,  to  find  herself  supported  by  the  arms  of  the 
lover  of  her  girlhood,  and  to  meet  again  his  look  of  ardent  affection. 


ALICE  B.  NEAL. 


THE  banks  of  the  Hudson  seem  destined  to  become  classic  ground. 
Not  a  few  of  our  most  distinguished  writers,  men  and  women,  have  either 
lent  their  genius  to  the  celebration  of  its  beauties,  or  have  themselves 
drawn  inspiration  from  its  mountain  breezes.  The  name  of  Alice  B.  Xeal 
is  now  to  be  added  to  the  list.  Born  in  1828,  in  the  city  of  Hudson,  she 
may  have  owed  her  early  love  for  the  beautiful  to  the  romantic  scenery  by 
which  her  childhood  was  surrounded.  If  there  be  any  truth  in  the  theory 
of  physical  influences  upon  the  mental,  we  may  in  like  manner  trace 
something  of  the  enduring  energy  with  which  she  has  met  her  many  trials 
to  her  subsequent  dwelling  upon  the  hardier  soil  of  the  granite  State. 
Her  education  was  finished  in  New  Hampshire,  where  she  gave  early  indi 
cations  of  intellectual  superiority. 

An  apparently  trivial  incident  of  the  school-room  led  to  a  most  romantic 
issue,  and  fixed  indeed  her  course  in  life.  In  a  sportive  hour,  her  school 
mates  challenged  her  to  try  her  success  before  the  world  with  some  of 
those  compositions  which  had  so  excited  the  admiration  of  the  school. 
The  challenge  was  accepted,  and  a  tale  was  at  once  despatched  to  Joseph  C. 
Xeal,  who  had  then  just  established  the  "  Saturday  Gazette."  It  was 
entitled  "  The  First  Declaration,"  and  signed  "  Alice  G.  Lee." 

Mr.  Neal  was  then  in  the  prime  of  his  days,  and  one  of  the  acknowledged 
arbiters  of  taste  in  literature.  His  decision  as  to  the  rejection  or  the 
acceptance  of  the  story  was  watched  with  eager  eyes  by  the  merry  young 
coterie.  How  those  eyes  must  have  sparkled  to  find  in  a  subsequent 
Gazette,  not  only  the  tale  published  in  full,  but  the  following  editorial 
comments : 

"  Taking  it  for  granted  that  our  literary  department  for  the  week  will 

receive  an  attentive  perusal,  we  shall  be  mistaken — much  mistaken,  ladies 

— for  to  your  peculiar  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  and  refined  we  appeal, 

particularly  in  the  present  instance — if  the  reader  does  not  agree  with  us 

41  (321) 


322  ALICE    B.    NEAL. 

in  our  estimate  of  the  merits  of  the  charming  original  sketch,  published 
in  our  present  number,  from  the  pen  of  Miss  Alice  G.  Lee. 

"  <  No  offence  to  the  general,  or  any  man  of  quality/  as  Cassio  has  it ; 
but  though  second  to  none  in  our  admiration  of  '  Fanny  Forrester/  it 
would  be  injustice  not  to  say,  that  '  The  First  Declaration'  will  compare, 
without  injury,  to  any  other  production  of  the  kind  that  has  adorned  of 
late  our  periodical  literature.  How  it  may  affect  others  we  cannot  tell  j 
but  it  is  to  us  like  moonlight  on  the  flowers  when  the  weary  day  is  done, 
or  like  music  on  the  waters,  to  meet  with  a  sketch  so  replete  with  play 
fulness,  yet  so  delicately  marked  with  Coleridge's  '  instinct  of  ladyhood.' 
There  is  genius,  too,  and  originality,  in  its  naivcti — a  nice  and  feminine 
perception  of  the  beautiful,  with  an  ability  to  portray  it,  which  cannot  fail 
of  its  purpose  whenever  it  is  thus  executed." 

The  matter  did  not  end  here.  The  new  author  continued  to  contribute 
to  the  Gazette.  A  correspondence  ensued,  which  led  to  the  entertainment 
on  his  part  of  a  deep  and  warm  regard.  Discovering  at  length,  accident 
ally,  that  "  Alice  G.  Lee"  was  a  jiction,  and  that  the  real  lady  was  Miss 
Emily  Bradley,  now  returned  to  her  own  home  on  the  Hudson,  he  imme 
diately  sought  her  acquaintance,  and  in  December,  1846,  received  her  hand 
in  marriage,  and  brought  her  to  Philadelphia,  which  has  been  her  home 
ever  since.  At  his  request,  she  resumed,  and  she  still  retains,  the  endeared 
name  of  "  Alice,"  by  which  he  had  first  known  her. 

This  union,  so  romantic  in  its  origin,  was  doomed  to  a  sad  and  speedy 
termination.  In  July,  1847,  the  hand  of  death  left  Mrs.  Neal  a  widow, 
at  the  early  age  of  nineteen.  Experience  shows,  in  the  moral  world  if 
not  in  the  physical,  that  the  coarsest  plants  are  not  always  the  hardiest. 
This  delicate  flower,  so  tenderly  fostered  and  so  fragrantly  blooming,  be 
neath  the  genial  influences  that  surround  the  parterres  of  city  life,  now 
that  it  was  exposed  to  the  blast,  seemed  suddenly  to  resume  the  hardihood 
of  its  mountain  birth.  With  a  courage  that  might  do  honour  to  an  expe 
rienced  matron,  this  widowed  girl  decided  at  once  to  assume  the  editorial 
duties  of  her  deceased  husband,  and  thus  not  only  avoid  eating  the  bread 
of  dependence,  but  also  win  the  dearer  privilege  of  ministering  to  the 
comfort  of  her  husband's  now  childless  mother.  To  this  excellent  woman, 
now  seventy-two  years  of  age,  with  a  filial  piety  like  that  of  Ruth  to 
Naomi,  she  has  said,  "  I  will  never  leave  thee  nor  forsake  thee."  Since 
the  death  of  Mr.  Neal,  the  two  ladies  have  continued  to  live  together,  the 
younger  gracefully  acknowledging  that  the  rich  stores  of  experience,  the 
varied  reading,  fine  taste,  and  judicious  counsels  of  her  aged  companion, 
have  more  than  compensated  for  her  own  more  active  exertions. 

Her  first  literary  effort,  after  her  mournful  bereavement,  was  to  super 
intend  the  publication  of  the  third  series  of  "  Charcoal  Sketches,"  by  her 
late  husband.  She  has  since  then,  besides  her  weekly  editorial  labours  in 
the  Gazette,  written  several  books  for  children,  and  contributed  largely, 


ALICE   B.    NEAL.  323 

both  in  prose  and  verse,  to  our  leading  Magazines.  "  Helen  Morton" 
appeared  in  1849  under  the  auspices  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Sunday 
School  Union,  and  was  well  received.  It  has  been  followed  by  "  Pictures 
from  the  Bible/'  and  a  sequel  to  "  Helen  Morton,"  called  "  Watch  and 
Pray."  She  is  at  present  engaged  upon  a  series  of  juvenile  books,  the 
first  of  which,  intended  for  boys,  and  entitled  "No  Such  Word  as  Fail," 
is  already  completed.  Of  her  works  of  a  different  kind,  the  first  that  has 
assumed  the  book  form  is  the  "Gossips  of  Kivertown,  or  Lessons  of 
Charity."  Her  other  tales  in  Godey,  Graham,  and  Sartain,  would  make, 
if  collected,  two  or  three  volumes  of  the  size  of  the  "Gossips  of  Rivertown." 
Mrs.  Neal  is  still  one  of  our  youngest  writers,  and  what  is  of  most 
favourable  omen,  shows  in  her  writings  constant  signs  of  improvement. 
In  the  language  of  a  contemporary  critic,  who  writes  on  this  subject  con 
amore,  and  whose  opinion  we  make  our  own :  "  Her  poetry  has  more  ma 
turity  than  her  prose ;  for  the  gift  of  song  comes  to  the  bard,  as  to  the 
bird,  direct  from  Heaven.  Polish  and  metrical  correctness  may  be  added 
to  genuine  poetry ;  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  fount  be  not  as  pure 
and  sparkling  at  its  first  gush,  as  when  quietly  flowing  on  in  a  deeper 
stream.  Mrs.  Neal's  prose  compositions  are  continually  improving,  and 
the  knowledge,  which,  with  her  uncommon  industry,  she  is  constantly 
acquiring,  will  enlarge  her  sphere  of  thought  and  illustration ;  and  better 
yet,  the  religious  tenor  of  her  writings  shows  that  she  is  guided  by  prin 
ciples  which  will  strengthen  her  intellect,  and  make  her,  we  trust,  in  after 
years,  an  ornament  and  blessing  to  our  famed  land." 


THE  CHILD-LOVE. 

"  He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us — 
He  made  and  loveth  all." — COLERIDGE. 

"I  AM  sure  you  love  me,  little  Miriam  ?" 

"Love  you? — oh,  so  dearly!"  And,  as  if  her  childish  words 
needed  a  stronger  confirmation,  she  put  her  arms  caressingly  about 
his  neck  and  laid  her  head  upon  his  bosom.  Her  face  was  very 
lov-ely  as  she  looked  up  to  him  in  all  the  winning  truthfulness  of 
an  affectionate  heart.  Large  gray  eyes,  with  lashes  so  long  and 
deep  as  almost  to  give  them  a  sorrowful  expression  at  times,  and  a 
mouth  now  smiling,  and  so  disclosing  small  pearly  teeth,  and  then 
the  crimson  lips  would  meet  in  pouting  fullness — 


,324  ALICE   B.   NEAL. 

"As  though  a  rose  should  shut, 
And  be  a  bud  again." 

So  thought  the  student  as  he  bent  down  to  return  the  fond  caress, 
and  mingled  his  darker  locks  with  the  light  floating  curls  that  were 
thrown  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"And  will  you  always  love  me,  Miriam?" 

"  Oh,  always !" 

"  But  when  I  am  gone — for  I  may  not  be  with  you  long ;  and 
then,  when  you  do  not  see  me  every  day,  and  you  have  other 
friends  who  love  you  better,  and  can  make  you  more  beautiful 
presents?" 

She  seemed  to  be  pained,  as  if  she  understood  the  worldliness 
thus  imputed  to  her,  young  as  she  was. 

"  But  why  must  you  go  ?  and  where  will  you  go  ?     Home  ?" 

"  Home  !  Ah,  no,  my  child ;  I  have  not  had  a  home  these  many 
years." 

And  then  they  were  both  silent  for  a  little  while ;  she  pitying 
him  because  he  had  no  home,  and  he  dwelling  on  thoughts  and 
recollections  which  the  word  had  called  up.  The  low  brown  farm 
house  where  his  boyish  days  were  passed,  with  the  mossy  bank 
around  the  well ;  the  little  garden  at  the  entrance  of  the  orchard ; 
the  orchard  itself,  white  with  blossoms  at  this  very  season  of  the 
year.  And  then  there  was  the  brook,  gurgling  through  the  alder 
bushes,  and  reflecting  the  tall  spires  of  the  crimson  cardinal,  or 
the  field  lily,  that  sprung  among  the  rich  grass.  He  seemed  once 
more  to  lie,  an  idle,  careless  boy,  watching  the  clouds  floating  lazily 
overhead,  while  the  summer  insects  sang  around  him,  and  the  wind 
came  gently  to  lift  the  hair  from  his  sunburnt  forehead. 

This  brought  a  recollection  of  his  mother's  kiss.  It  always 
seemed  to  him  like  the  summer  wind,  so  quiet,  so  warm,  so  loving. 
Her  kiss  and  blessing,  as  she  bent  over  his  pillow,  and  then  she 
would  kneel  and  pray  so  earnestly  for  her  son,  her  only  child. 
How  unlike  his  father  was  that  gentle  woman !  He  had  wondered 
at  that  even  when  a  boy.  His  stern,  rigid  parent,  who  rarely 
smiled,  and  made  self-denial  and  never-ceasing  labour  his  religion, 
as  though  he  felt  the  curse  of  Cain  ever  upon  his  rugged  fields. 


ALICE   B.    NEAL.  325 

They  were  united  only  in  one  thing,  their  love  for  him,  and  the 
zealous  prayer  that  he  might  be,  like  Samuel,  called  even  in  child 
hood  to  the  service  of  the  Temple.  So  they  had  dedicated  him ; 
and,  when  he  saw  the  grass  springing  upon  their  graves  in  the 
churchyard,  and  took  a  last  look  upon  that  humble  home,  now 
passed  into  other  hands,  he  remembered  this  strong  wish  of  the 
hearts  that  had  loved  him  so,  and  were  now  mouldering  to  dust 
beneath  his  feet. 

"But  where  are  you  going?"  said  the  child,  who  had  been 
thinking  of  many  other  things,  and  had  now  returned  to  this  new 
fear  of  parting. 

"  Many,  many  hundred  miles  from  this,  Miriam,  away  from  the 
busy  city  and  its  crowded  streets.  Far  off  to  the  still  woods,  where 
there  are  no  church-bells,  and  even  no  Sabbaths.  I  am  going  to 
the  poor  Indians,  to  teach  them  where  to  look  for  the  Great  Spirit 
they  worship,  and  to  the  settlers  of  those  Western  lands,  ruder 
still,  and  in  darker  ignorance.  They  scarcely  know  there  is  a 
God." 

"  But  they  have  the  sky  there,  and  the  sun ;  and  who  do  they 
think  made  them  and  the  little  flowers  in  the  grass  ?  They  could 
not  make  the  flowers  !" 

"But  they  do  not  love  the  flowers  and  the  sky  as  you  do ;  they 
are  blind  :  '  Eyes  have  they,  and  they  see  not ;  ears,  but  they  do 
not  hear.'  So  I  am  going  to  them  with  God's  own  word,  that  will 
speak  more  plainly  to  their  hearts.  Do  you  not  think  it  will  be  a 
beautiful  life" — and  his  sunken  eyes  glanced  with  strange  enthusi 
asm — "  devoting  every  power  of  soul  and  body  to  those  benighted 
people,  forgetting  this  life  and  its  comforts  and  pleasures  in  the 
thoughts  of  that  which  is  to  come  ? — reaping  the  broad  whitening 
harvest?" 

He  forgot  that  he  was  speaking  to  a  child.  And  yet  she  seemed 
to  understand  him,  at  least  to  feel  that  he  was  swayed  by  some 
noble  emotion ;  for  she  raised  her  head  and  listened  eagerly,  as  if 
a  new  life  of  thought  was  opened  to  her. 

"  And  will  you  have  a  home  there  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  shall  never  have  a  home  on  earth ;  parents,  wife. 


326  ALICE    B.    NEAL. 

children  are  not  for  me.  I  go  forth  with  neither  purse  nor  scrip, 
following  our  Divine  Master ;  I  shall  not  have  where  to  lay  my 
head.  But  his  love  constrains  me  ;  he  will  not  desert  his  servant." 
And  his  voice  sank,  as  it  were,  to  a  thought  of  prayer  for  the 
strength  he  would  need  in  the  arduous  path  he  had  chosen. 

"  But  you  will  be  all  alone  and  sick,  and  there  will  be  no  one  to 
take  care  of  you;  then  perhaps  you  will  die."  The  look  of  sad 
ness  we  have  spoken  of  came  into  the  child's  earnest  eyes,  as  she 
laid  her  soft  head  against  his  cheek,  and  wondered  why  he  should 
choose  to  go  away  from  her. 

"  We  will  not  talk  of  this  any  longer,  little  one.  I  have  made 
you  so  sad  and  grave.  I  do  not  like  that  look  on  your  face ;  it  is 
too  womanly  for  such  a  little  maiden.  You  are  too  young  to 
understand  all  these  things,  and  you  must  not  try  to ;  but  you 
must  love  me,  that  is  all  I  ask.  See,  there  is  your  kitten,  come  to 
invite  you  away  from  me." 

It  was  with  a  strong  effort  that  he  had  shaken  off  the  sombre 
mood  into  which  he  had  fallen,  and  attempted  to  enter  into  her 
childish  amusements  once  more.  He  was  startled  by  the  earnest, 
dreamy  look  that  she  still  retained.  As  he  had  said,  it  was  too 
womanly  for  that  young  fair  face. 

She  smiled  again ;  obedience  to  those  she  loved  was  the  strong 
principle  of  her  nature,  for  she  had  ever  been  governed  by  affec 
tion.  No  one  ever  spoke  a  harsh  word  to  Miriam,  motherless 
Miriam  Arnold,  the  light  of  her  father's  lonely  life,  and  the  pet 
of  the  neighbours,  who  looked  out  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  light 
figure  as  she  bounded  up  the  dark  court  like  a  flitting  ray  of  sun 
shine.  It  was  a  gloomy  abode  for  such  a  bright  young  creature, 
or  a  stranger  would  have  thought  so.  The  house  so  old  and  cheer 
less,  far  away  from  the  gay  shops  and  the  beautiful  women  who 
frequent  them.  There  was  not  even  a  green  tree  or  an  ivy  wreath 
to  refresh  the  eye,  nothing  but  Miriam's  little  pot  of  mignonette 
upon  the  window-sill,  fresh  and  fragrant  like  herself,  and  her  bird, 
who  sang  above  it  with  a  carol  as  light-hearted  as  her  own.  The 
bird,  the  child,  and  the  flowers,  these  were  the  light  of  that  lonely 
house,  since  Miriam's  mother  had  faded  in  its  dreariness.  And  it 


ALICE    B.   NEAL.  327 

was  home,  too,  even  if  the  old  servant,  who  moved  with  such  a 
cautious  tread  among  the  dusty  books  of  her  master's  study,  was 
the  only  companionable  creature,  save  the  bird.  How  carefully 
she  rubbed  the  dingy  furniture,  and  mended  the  threadbare  cur 
tains,  long  since  faded  from  their  cheerful  neatness !  It  was, 
perhaps,  this  still  seclusion  that  had  given  Miriam,  with  all  her 
eager  childish  grace,  thoughts  above  her  years ;  and,  after  her  friend 
had  gone,  she  put  the  kitten  from  her  lap  and  leaned  out  of  the 
window  to  watch  for  her  father's  return,  musing,  as  she  had  never 
done  before,  how  men  could  ever  live  without  knowing  they  had  a 
Father  up  in  Heaven,  and  who  else  they  could  thank  for  taking 
care  of  them  through  the  long  dark  night  ?  And  then  her  friend 
— Paul,  he  had  told  her  to  call  him,  when  he  first  came  to  read 
those  strange  Hebrew  words  to  her  father,  a  daily  study  of  the 
ancient  language  of  the  Bible  he  reverenced  so  much — Paul  was 
going  away  to  tell  them  to  love  him.  How  very  good  he  was ! 
She  should  miss  him  a  great  deal  though.  Perhaps  he  would  take 
her  too.  Oh,  she  had  not  thought  of  that  before !  But,  then, 
there  was  her  father  !  No,  Paul  must  go  alone.  Poor  Paul,  with 
no  one  to  love  him  but  herself !  How  gravely  he  had  made  her 
promise  to  love  him,  as  if  she  had  not  always  done  so  from  that 
very  first  day  when  he  had  taken  her  upon  his  knee  and  talked  to 
her  as  no  one  else  could  talk ! 

The  young  curate,  for  such  he  was,  of  a  wealthy  parish  church, 
old  and  "lukewarm"  because  of  its  long  prosperity,  had  gone  to 
his  daily  duty  of  reading  the  evening  service  to  a  scattered  con 
gregation,  half  hidden  in  the  high  straight  pews,  that  almost 
stifled  their  faint  responses.  He  went  with  a  heavy  load  upon  his 
heart,  for  he  was  a  stranger  among  them  and  to  their  sympathies. 
There  was  no  poverty  to  call  such  as  he  to  their  homes ;  the  rector 
only  was  bidden  to  the  rich  man's  feasts.  He  came  and  went  to 
and  from  the  gilded  chancel,  with  scarce  a  smile  of  recognition 
from  those  to  whom  his  rich  voice  had  read  the  "comfortable 
words"  of  their  Master  and  his.  The  Bible  told  him  they  were 
brethren,  but  his  heart  said  they  were  utter  strangers.  It  was  this 
cold  supineness  that  had  first  turned  his  thoughts  to  a  more  earnest, 


328  ALICE  B.    NEAL. 

active  life  among  men  "ready  to  perish,"  while  his  present  minis 
try  was  to  those  who  were  "  full  and  had  need  of  nothing."  And, 
at  last,  after  many  a  struggle  and  many  a  prayer,  he  had  stead 
fastly  turned  his  face  to  a  mission  in  the  western  wilds  of  his  native 
land. 

In  all  that  wide,  wide  city,  there  was  one  only  object  his  heart 
could  cling  to — the  little  child  whose  arms  had  circled  him,  whose 
kiss  had  comforted  his  loneliness.  This  was  perhaps  from  his  own 
reserve,  for  he  had  been  solitary  even  from  a  boy.  He  had  never 
attached  his  playmates  to  him,  he  could  not  seek  for  sympathy 
among  strangers ;  opening  to  them  the  sorrows  of  his  heart,  a 
gentle  heart  like  the  mother  who  had  given  him  life :  but  he 
checked  its  longing  sympathies  with  a  pride  inherited  from  his 
sterner  parent,  and  turned  to  fasting  and  lonely  vigils  of  prayer 
and  meditation.  Miriam  was  the  frail  golden  link  that  bound  him 
to  active  human  sympathies.  He  was  attracted  by  her  strange 
loveliness  as  she  came,  half  pleadingly,  half  timidly,  to  prefer  some 
request  to  her  father,  and  since  then  she  had  been  the  prattling 
companion  of  many  a  lonely  hour,  when  the  task  was  ended,  and 
his  teacher  had  gone  forth  to  impart  to  other  pupils  the  stores  of 
his  great  learning. 

She  was  watching  for  him  the  next  day  at  the  entrance  of  the 
court,  as  he  came  slowly  along,  absorbed  in  one  of  those  abstracted 
moods  which  had  now  become  habitual  to  him.  Her  eyes  bright 
ened  as  she  caught  sight  of  his  slender  figure,  and  she  ran  to  place 
her  hand  in  his  with  the  confidence  of  an  habitual  favourite. 
Something  which  pleased  her  very  much  had  evidently  occurred ; 
but  when  she  was  questioned,  she  only  smiled,  and  said  it  was  a 
great  secret ;  even  papa  was  not  to  be  told.  Yet  it  was  not 
naughty :  Margery  had  said  so.  Every  day  after  that,  for  a  long 
time,  he  found  the  faithful  little  sentinel  at  her  post ;  and  sometimes 
their  walk  was  extended,  and  she  would  go  with  him  into  the  busy 
street,  clinging  closer  to  her  dear  companion,  and  looking  up  with 
smiles  into  his  face,  if  the  crowd  jostled  her,  the  embodiment  of 
the  spirit  of  faith. 

At  last  the  secret  was  revealed.     It  was  when  he  came  to  tell 


ALICE   B.    NEAL.  309 

her  that  he  was  going,  all  was  ready  for  his  departure,  and  he  had 
but  one  farewell  to  make.  He  was  later  than  usual,  and  she  was 
watching  for  him  with  more  eagerness  than  ever.  She  tripped 
demurely  by  his  side,  looking  so  beautiful  in  her  clean  white  dress, 
and  her  curls  in  such  rich  profusion  flowing  round  her  delicate 
throat.  He  could  not  bear  to  pain  her  happy  heart  by  the  sad 
news  of  their  parting,  so  he  drew  her  gently  to  his  bosom  for  the 
last  time,  while  he  waited  for  her  father's  return ;  and  they  were 
all  alone  but  the  kitten  purring  in  the  sun,  and  old  Margery  bus 
tling  in  and  out,  intent  on  household  cares.  They  did  not  talk 
much,  but  now  and  then  she  would  pass  her  hand  caressingly  over 
his  face,  or  he  would  bend  down  and  kiss  her  tenderly.  At  last 
he  said — 

"  I  am  going,  Miriam.  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  see  you  in 
many  a  day." 

"  Going  !"  she  said,  echoing  the  word  sorrowfully. 

"  Yes,  as  I  told  you  when  the  spring  first  came.  To-morrow  I 
shall  be  on  my  way  to  the  deep  woods  and  the  boundless  prairies 
of  the  western  land." 

He  expected  at  least  a  burst  of  passionate  sobs ;  but  she  only 
nestled  closer  to  his  heart,  and  twined  her  arm  more  tightly  about 
*  his  neck. 

After  a  little  time,  she  slid  from  his  knee,  still  sorrowful,  and 
came  back  to  him  holding  a  little  picture.  It  was  a  miniature  of 
herself,  exceedingly  lifelike,  and  it  had  the  dreamy,  serious  gaze 
which  he  had  first  noticed  when  speaking  of  his  mission.  This 
was  her  innocent  little  secret.  It  had  been  painted  by  a  poor 
artist,  with  more  talent  than  friends,  who  had  his  home  in  the 
same  dark  court.  He  had  thought  her  so  beautiful,  that  he  begged 
her  to  sit  to  him,  intending  a  surprise  to  her  father,  who,  in  his 
unostentatious  way,  had  once  been  of  service  to  his  poorer  neigh 
bour.  That  very  day  she  had  brought  it  home,  so  she  told  Paul, 
and  laid  it  in  a  book  before  him. 

"  And  he  was  pleased,"  said  Paul,  "  and  kissed  you,  and  thought 
it  was  very  like  you,  as  I  do  ?" 

"  I  don't  believe  he  liked  it  so  very  much.    I  don't  think  he 

42 


330  ALICE   B.  NEAL. 

likes  pictures  at  all,"  answered  the  child.  "  He  never  looks  at  iny 
sweet  mother,  with  the  blue  dress  and  the  rose  in  her  hair.  But 
he  smiled,  and  told  me  to  give  it  to  the  person  I  loved  best  in  the 
world." 

"And  you  gave  it  to  Margery,  perhaps?"  Paul  smiled  at  the 
thought  of  bestowing  such  a  gem  upon  Margery's  dark  little 
kitchen. 

"  No,  I  don't  love  her  best,  and  that  would  not  be  right.  I 
kept  it  for  you,  because  there  is  no  one  but  papa  and  you  I  ever 
dream  about.  Sometimes  I  have  such  lovely  dreams,  and  think 
you  are  never  going  away.  But  you  are,  and  you  must  take  this, 
and  keep  it  always.  I'm  sure  you  will,  Paul." 

A  tear,  yes,  a  tear,  fell  upon  the  beautiful  picture — so  touched 
was  he  by  the  earnestness  and  sincerity  of  her  affection,  and  the 
thought  that  he  was  so  soon  to  leave  her. 

Her  father  came,  a  mild,  benevolent-looking  man ;  but,  never 
theless,  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  no  strong  hopes  or  desires.  He 
was  sorry  to  part  with  his  favourite  pupil,  but  blessed  him  in  God's 
name;  for  he,  too,  had  been  "a  minister  about  holy  things,"  and 
knew  the  burning  zeal  which  had  filled  the  heart  of  the  young 
devotee. 

The  morrow  came,  and  Miriam  was  restless  and  sad  as  the  hour  * 
for  their  walk  drew  near,  and  there  was  no  friend  to  join  her. 
Many  and  many  a  day  did  she  linger  at  their  old  trysting-place, 
her  heart  beating  fast,  if  she  saw  in  the  distance  a  face  or  figure 
that  might  be  his.  But  one  day  after  another  came  and  went,  and 
he  was  not  there.  Then  she  found  other  friends,  and  Time  was 
her  consoler. 

Years,  many  years  had  passed,  and  the  missionary  sat  at  the 
door  of  his  rude  cabin,  and  leaned  his  weary  head  against  the 
rough  unhewn  beams  for  support.  He  was  far  older,  and  had  a 
dejected,  sorrowful  air  that  had  deepened  the  lines  upon  his  fore 
head,  though  his  dark  clustering  hair  had  not  silvered,  and  his  eyes 
still  lighted  with  the  fire  of  manly  thought.  Yet  the  fresh  vigour 
of  his  youth  was  spent,  and  his  heart  was  weary  and  athirst  for 
closer  sympathy  than  he  had  found  among  the  rude  dwellers  of  the 


ALICE   B.    NEAL.  331 

land.  Their  numbers  had  greatly  increased  since  he  first  came 
among  them,  and  the  Indian  haunts  had  retreated  from  before 
approaching  civilization.  They  had  prayed  him  to  remain  among 
them,  to  visit  their  sick  and  bury  their  dead,  and  they  were  kind 
to  him  in  their  own  way.  They  had  built  his  cabin,  and  furnished 
it  with  their  own  rude  manufactures,  and  brought  him  presents  of 
game  from  the  forest,  and  fruit  from  their  thriving  farms.  But, 
now  the  zeal  of  his  first  consecration  was  spent,  he  saw  little  fruit 
of  all  his  labours ;  the  wilderness  had  not  yet  blossomed  as  the 
rose.  He  longed  for  some  one  who  could  sympathize  in  his  ardent 
desire  to  do  good,  and  to  encourage  him  to  cast  his  "  bread  upon 
the  waters."  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  prayed, 
communing  with  the  only  intelligence  that  could  read  his  heart, 
and  then  he  looked  around  him  and  still  sighed. 

Perhaps  it  was  that  he  had  seen  the  cheerful  blaze  from  the  fire 
side  of  some  of  his  people,  as  he  came  homewards,  and  stopped  to 
speak  some  playful  word  with  the  urchins  before  the  door;  but,  as 
he  sighed,  he  wondered  if  he  could  have  been  happier  had  he  not 
denied  to  his  starving  heart  all  human,  household  love.  "Per 
haps  I  have  wronged  my  nature,"  he  thought.  "It  may  not  be 
required  of  me  to  lead  this  lonely  life."  And  then — he  never 
could  tell  what  brought  the  recollection  so  vividly  before  him  at 
that  moment — there  came  a  yearning  thought  of  the  little  Miriam 
of  years  ago — his  child-friend. 

She  must  be  a  woman  now,  and  beautiful  and  good.  Perhaps 
she  had  already  a  home  of  her  own,  and  her  children  about  her. 
At  any  rate,  she  had  forgotten  him.  If  she  had  not,  if  she  still 
remembered  her  childish  promise  to  love  him  always — but  no,  he 
would  not  be  so  mad,  so  selfish,  as  to  ask  her  to  sacrifice  her  youth 
and  beauty  to  his  life  of  lonely  privation.  But  he  could  not  banish 
her  from  his  mind,  and  he  went  in  and  unclasped  the  miniature  he 
had  not  seen  for  many  a  day.  It  was  a  little  faded  now;  but 
there  were  the  earnest,  serious  look,  and  the  soft  curls,  and  the 
fond  smile.  How  she  had  loved  him !  and  he  could  almost  feel 
her  arms  about  his  neck  and  her  heart  beating  close  to  his.  It 
was  the  isolation  of  spirit  as  well  as  outward  life  which  had  impressed 


332  ALICE   B.   NEAL. 

these  remembrances  so  forcibly  upon  him.  Everything  seemed  as 
if  yesterday.  Again  that  yearning  thought ;  and  even  before  a 
resolve,  he  had  smothered  a  fear,  and  was  pouring  out  to  her,  or 
what  he  felt  to  be  her  now,  all  that  was  in  his  heart. 

After  the  letter  was  gone,  there  were  weeks  of  anxious  suspense ; 
and  then  he  began  to  wonder  at  his  own  madness  and  folly.  Some 
times  he  would  try  to  calm  himself  with  thinking  that  they  had  left 
their  old  home,  and  it  would  never  reach  Miriam ;  and  then  he 
almost  wished  it  would  be  so,  for  she  would  never  learn  his  pre 
sumption.  But  at  last  the  answer  came,  when  he  had  quite  ceased 
to  expect  it ;  and  he  knew  only  by  the  tumult  of  his  emotions,  as 
he  broke  the  seal,  how  much  he  had  perilled  upon  what  would  now 
be  revealed.  He  did  not  think  to  glance  at  the  signature  to  see 
if  she  was  still  unmarried,  but,  as  one  resolved  to  drain  to  the  dregs 
a  bitter  cup,  he  tore  open  the  sheet,  allowing  himself  no  hope. 

"  Paul — dear  Paul !" — he  was  so  dizzy  that  he  could  scarcely  see 
the  words — "  you  will  think  me  strange,  unmaidenly,  when  I  tell 
you  that  my  pen  trembles  in  my  hand  for  very  happiness.  I  have 
heard  from  you  once  more !  The  dream  of  my  youth,  of  many, 
many  years,  has  at  last  been  fulfilled !  I  knew  you  had  not  for 
gotten  me ;  and  I  have  kept  you  ever  in  my  mind,  mingled  with  all 
that  I  counted  good  and  noble.  I  have  kept  the  promise  which  you 
recall,  unconsciously,  for  I  had  forgotten  it  was  ever  required.  I 
have  'loved  you  always,'  Paul. 

"  No  doubt  much  of  this  has  been  wild  imagination,  nursed  in  the 
lonely  life  I  have  ever  led.  I  mean  the  seclusion  ;  for  we  are  still 
here  as  when  you  left  us,  except  that  my  father  is  older  and  more 
feeble,  and  I  have  assumed  Margery's  household  duties,  for  we  are 
very  poor.  You  have  sought  a  portionless  bride.  But  we  will 
come  to  you,  as  you  have  asked,  for  we  know  you  cannot  leave 
your  people,  and  your  heart  will  grow  strong  again  and  be  com 
forted  by  my  father's  gentle  counsels;  and  /will  be  your  'home.' 
I  can  remember  asking  you  if  you  were  going  home. 

"  Do  not  fear  that  I  shall  not  be  content.  I  am  strong  and 
well ;  I  have  never  been  accustomed  to  luxuries ;  and  am  I  unwo- 


ALICE   B.    NEAL.  333 

manly  in  telling  you  how  my  very  heart  has  gone  out  to  you,  at 
your  first  bidding  ?  I  have  never  lost  trace  of  your  labours.  I 
have  seen  what  you  have  done  for  those  scattered  people.  I  read 
of  the  consecration  of  your  little  church ;  and  once  I  have  seen  one 
who  had  met  you,  and  who  told  me  of  your  fervour,  and  that  you 
were  wearing  yourself  out  by  your  never-ceasing  labour.  He  said 
your  eyes  were  large  and  dark,  though  sunken,  and  that  you  looked 
too  frail  for  so  rude  a  life.  You  see  it  was  not  all  imagination. 

"  Yes,  we  will  come.  My  father  has  said  so  with  his  blessing, 
and  he  will  renew  his  youth  living  among  the  beautiful  things  of 
nature ;  and  I  shall  know  you  there  face  to  face  as  I  know  you 
now  in  spirit,  gentle,  patient,  unselfish." 

The  promise  was  kept,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  those  who  walk 
ever  in  the  beaten  track  of  cold  formalities.  It  was  again  evening 
on  those  broad  prairie  lands,  and  Paul  Stanbridge  waited  the 
approaching  twilight,  pondering  on  the  new  revelation  of  life,  the 
seals  of  which  another  day  would  open.  He  wondered  if  it  were 
not  a  blessed  dream,  and  then  he  turned  to  look  once  more  at  the 
few  comforts  he  had  recently  gathered  in  his  little  cabin  for  her 
who  was  henceforth  to  be  its  mistress.  She  had  always  loved 
flowers.  How  fortunate  that  he  had  twined  the  prairie  rose  and 
the  clematis  over  the  misshapen  walls  of  his  dwelling !  and  the 
smooth  lawn-like  slope  to  the  river-side,  how  peaceful  it  all  seemed 
as  it  slept  in  the  sun's  last  rays ! 

Suddenly,  he  felt  rather  than  saw  an  approach,  and  he  turned  to 
find  two  coming  slowly  towards  him.  No,  no,  it  was  a  dream — 
they  could  not  reach  even  the  village  before  the  morrow — and  the 
strangers  were  alone,  and  coming  as  if  they  knew  the  foot-path. 

It  was  no  dream ;  one  more  glance,  and  he  knew  that  venerable 
form ;  an  instant,  and  that  noble  woman  was  clasped  in  a  welcoming 
embrace.  There  was  no  coldness,  no  formality  in  that  greeting. 
She  was  all  that  he  had  dreamed  and  pictured ;  she  was  much  more 
than  he  had  dared  to  hope  ;  and  she  had  bound  him  for  ever  by  her 
trustful  confidence,  her  womanly  devotion.  So  they  were  united 
for  life  or  death.  Her  father  blessed  them  as  he  had  done  before, 


334  ALICE  B.   NEAL. 

calling  them  by  that  holiest  and  dearest  of  titles,  "man  and  wife," 
and,  for  the  first  time  in  many  years,  the  missionary  had  a  home. 

You  will  wonder  if  there  was  no  sad  awaking  when  the  romance 
of  youthful  girlhood  had  passed,  and  Miriam  knew  that  the  step 
was  irrevocable.  You  would  need  no  other  answer  than  a  glance 
at  the  peace  and  happiness  which  sprung  up  in  that  quiet  dwelling, 
a  light  that  was  diffused  among  all  his  little  flock ;  for  he  had 
found  the  key  to  their  hearts — his  creed  was  no  longer  gloomy  and 
morose,  looking  coldly  on  all  their  social  joy.  And  every  one  loved 
Miriam,  who  became,  young  as  she  was,  a  guide  and  a  friend  to 
many  beside  her  husband. 

But  did  she  truly  love  him  ? 

Her  father,  happy  in  his  serene  old  age,  did  not  doubt  it,  as  he 
saw  her  place  their  first  born,  Paul,  in  his  arms,  and  look  up  to 
him  with  the  trusting  confidence  of  old,  mingled  with  a  deeper, 
because  wifelike,  tenderness. 


CLARA  MOORE. 


MRS.  CLARA  MOORE  is  a  native  of  Westfield,  Massachusetts,  but  has 
resided  in  Philadelphia  since  her  marriage.  Her  maiden  name  was  Jes- 
sup.  She  has  distinguished  herself  as  a  writer  both  of  prose  and  of  poetry, 
but  principally  of  the  former.  Her  stories  are  natural  in  their  incidents, 
gracefully  written,  and  full  of  fine  delineation  of  character.  A  vein  of 
sentiment,  which  pervades  most  of  her  writings,  renders  them  especial 
favourites  with  her  sex.  In  describing  the  struggles  of  woman's  heart, 
when  actuated  by  the  passion  of  love,  she  is  peculiarly  happy :  indeed, 
few  female  authors  in  the  United  States  excel  her  in  this  respect.  Her 
story  entitled  "Emma  Dudley's  Secret"  is  an  instance  in  point.  This 
powerful  tale  has  been  republished  in  London  with  much  success.  "The 
Mother-in-Law"  and  "The  Estranged  Hearts,"  both  prize  tales,  may 
be  quoted  as  happy  illustrations  of  her  style. 

It  is  a  high  merit  with  Mrs.  Moore,  that  she  seeks  her  subjects  in  every 
day  life,  instead  of  dealing  in  the  visionary  regions  of  inflated  romance. 
The  calamities  which  oppress  her  heroines  are  such  as  might  happen  to 
any  woman.  Another  merit  in  this  author  is,  that  instead  of  confining 
herself  to  the  passion  of  love,  as  it  exists  in  the  female  heart  before  mar 
riage,  she  depicts  it  in  the  varied  trials  to  which  it  is  subjected  after  mar 
riage  ;  and  this  opens  a  mine  which  has  been  but  little  worked  by  novel 
ists.  Mrs.  Moore  understands  her  own  sex  thoroughly.  It  would  be 
difficult,  perhaps  impossible,  for  a  man  to  anatomize  the  female  heart  as 
she  has  done.  Her  plots  are  generally  well  managed,  though  she  has  as 
yet  published  no  fiction  of  sufficient  length  to  test  her  powers  in  this 
respect  fully.  As  a  magazinist,  she  enjoys  an  enviable  reputation.  Her 
success,  indeed,  is  the  more  distinguished  because  authorship  with  her  is 
an  amusement  rather  than  a  profession.  She  wisely  considers,  that  the 
duties  of  a  wife  and  mother  are  paramount,  and  hence  it  is  only  her  leisure 
that  she  surrenders  to  literature.  Her  pride  is  to  be  a  woman  first,  an 

(335) 


.336  CLARA   MOORE. 

author  afterwards ;  yet  we  trust  that  she  will  eventually  find  time  for  the 
composition  of  some  more  elaborate  fiction  than  the  short,  fugitive  stories 
with  which  she  has  hitherto  graced  our  literature ;  and  with  her  wide 
observation  of  the  female  heart,  and  her  skill  in  managing  incidents,  she 
cannot  but  succeed  brilliantly  if  she  makes  the  attempt. 

Most  of  her  writings  have  been  published  under  the  nom  de  plume  of 
"  Clara  Moreton." 


THE  YOUNG  MINISTER'S  CHOICE. 

ALONE  in  her  chamber,  Gertrude  Leslie  sat,  reading  in  bitter 
ness  of  spirit  the  once  cherished  testimonials  of  her  early  love. 
Years  had  passed  since  those  glowing  words  had  been  penned,  and 
yet  the  fountains  of  her  heart  were  stirred  as  violently  as  upon 
their  first  perusal.  Still  burned  upon  its  altar-shrine  the  love 
which  years  of  estrangement  had  not  the  power  to  destroy ;  and 
like  a  guilty  creature  she  hid  her  face  within  her  hands,  when  she 
remembered  that  her  heart  was  now  promised  to  another. 

Too  well  she  knew  that  no  promise  bore  the  power  of  recalling 
that  love  from  the  worshipped  idol  of  her  youth,  and  that  with 
false  hopes  she  had  deceived  herself,  as  well  as  the  noble  and  trust 
ing  heart  now  resting  its  happiness  upon  hers. 

For  a  long  time  Gertrude  sat  motionless,  her  white  hands  pressed 
tightly  over  her  colourless  face,  and  her  mind  far  away  in  the 
dreamy  past.  Sweet  memories  of  that  olden  time  came  thronging 
to  her  brain,  and  again  she  was  the  guileless,  happy  child  of  "  long 
ago" — again,  in  fancy,  her  light  feet  crushed  the  grass  of  the  valley 
home  where  her  childhood  had  been  passed — again  leaning  upon 
the  arm  of  one  most  tenderly  beloved,  she  strayed  along  the  banks 
of  the  moonlit  river,  her  young  heart  as  pure  as  the  clear  depths 
of  the  stream  which  reflected  the  golden  gleaming  stars  of  the  azure 
sky.  So  in  her  heart  did  the  stars  of  love  then  shed  round  a 
golden  glow,  but  years  had  passed,  and  dimmer,  still  dimmer  had 
grown  their  lustre,  until  at  last  she  had  fancied  that  the  light  of 
that  early  love  had  died  away  for  ever.  Vain  fancy,  when  those 
written  words  had  power  to  waken  such  strong  emotions ! 

Rising  from  her  seat,  Gertrude  with  a  quick  impatience  tore 


CLARA    MOORE.  337 

into  shreds  letter  after  letter,  and  one  by  one  cast  them  upon  the 
glowing  grate  before  her. 

"  So  perish  all  memory  of  the  past,"  she  said,  "  all  memory 
of  the  misplaced  attachment  of  my  youth ;  yet  not  misplaced,  for 
he  would  have  been  true  to  me,  I  know  he  would,  had  I  been 
worthy  of  such  love  as  his  once  was."  For  a  long  time  did  Ger 
trude  thus  commune  with  her  own  thoughts — then  kneeling  beside 
her  couch,  her  bruised  spirit  poured  itself  out  in  broken  words. 

Thanks  to  the  Author  of  our  being,  that  always  the  prayer  of 
the  earnest  heart  is  answered — answered  by  the  serene  happiness 
which  ever  follows  aspirations  after  truth — by  the  guiding  light 
which  dawns  upon  the  mind — by  the  renewed  strength  which  gives 
power  to  trample  down  all  obstacles,  and  follow  without  faltering 
that  beacon  light. 

This  light  now  dawned  upon  Gertrude's  mind,  showing  her  plainly 
the  path  of  duty  which  led  to  her  own  happiness — the  only  path 
which  could  bring  her  peace. 

Her  resolution  being  once  taken  she  knew  no  faltering,  and  that 
evening,  when  her  affianced  husband,  Julien  Neville,  resumed  his 
accustomed  sea^  beside  her,  in  the  brilliantly-lighted  parlours  of  her 
father's  splendid  mansion,  she  met  him,  nerved  to  carry  out  her  firm 
convictions  of  duty. 

They  were  alone  in  those  large  apartments,  filled  with  every 
luxury.  The  light  from  the  massive  chandeliers  flashed  back  from 
polished  mirrors  and  costly  frames  of  rare  paintings,  and  from  the 
gilded  cornices  of  the  rich  curtains  woven  in  foreign  looms  which 
shrouded  the  lofty  windows,  and  fell  in  heavy  folds  to  the  tufted 
carpeting,  where  stainless  lilies  and  glowing  roses  were  blooming 
side  by  side  in  loving  rivalry.  They  were  alone — hope  beating 
high  in  Julien's  heart,  although  the  fingers  which  he  essayed  to 
clasp  within  his  own  were  cold  and  tremulous.  Twice  Gertrude 
had  attempted  to  answer  his  loving  words  of  greeting,  and  twice 
had  the  echo  of  her  own  thoughts  died  away  upon  her  heart  without 
leaving  a  vibration  to  the  ear. 

"Ah,  Julien,"  at  length  she  gasped,  "you  will  cease  to  care  for 
me,  cease  to  respect  me,  and  yet  I  must  tell  you  all." 
43 


338  CLARA   MOORE. 

"  Never,  my  own — my  sweetest,  I  know  all  that  you  would  say. 
It  has  been  told  me  this-  day,  and  I  have  come  to  urge  a  speedy 
union — to  offer  your  father  a  home  with  us.  Oh !  Gertrude,  you 
wronged  me  by  imagining  for  a  moment,  that  the  deep  devotion  of 
my  heart  could  ever  from  such  a  cause  know  decay  or  change." 

"  My  father !  Julien,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Surely  he  needs  no 
other  home !"  she  said,  and  her  quick  eyes  glanced  ove*r  the  elegant 
rooms,  and  rested  in  inquiry  upon  those  of  her  lover. 

Julien  Neville  sighed  heavily  as  he  answered — 

"  I  had  hoped,  my  dearest,  that  your  father's  misfortunes  had 
already  been  broken  to  you,  but  surely  no  one  could  do  it  more 
tenderly  than  myself.  Trust  in  me,  darling,  and  do  not  fear  for 
the  future.  I  have  wealth  enough  for  all — more  than  enough, 
thank  God;  and  this  house,  Gertrude,  everything  herein  shall 
remain  untouched.  So  do  not  look  so  wildly,  my  own,  you  shall 
know  no  change ;  and  your  father  shall  not  miss  the  luxuries  to 
which  he  has  always  been  accustomed." 

"  My  father !  change  !  misfortunes  !  you  cannot  mean,  Julien, 
that  he,  that  my  father  is  a  bankrupt !" 

"You  have  guessed  but  too  truly,  dear  Gertrude." 

Overcome  by  the  unexpectedness  of  the  blow,  Gertrude  buried 
her  head  in  the  cushions  of  the  lounge — refusing  all  the  sympathy 
which  Julien  so  tenderly  proffered.  Her  heart  bled  at  the  thought 
of  her  father's  disappointments,  but  not  even  for  one  moment  did 
she  swerve  from  her  purpose.  In  days  that  were  past  she  had  de 
ceived  herself,  but  no  longer  was  the  calm  affection  which  she  had 
felt  for  Julien  Neville  to  be  mistaken  for  love.  When  she  raised 
her  face  to  his,  it  was  as  he  had  ever  been  wont  to  see  it — there  were 
mirrored  there  no  traces  of  the  wild  torrent  of  emotions  now  delug 
ing  her  bosom,  and  Julien  gazed  with  pride  upon  her  queenly 
beauty.  The  silence  of  that  moment  was  broken  by  these  words — 

"  Julien,  you  will  hate  me  for  what  I  have  to  say  this  night,  but 
it  must  be  said.  You  must  not  reproach  me — you  must  not  call 
me  fickle  until  you  hear  the  whole.  Oh  !  Julien,  my  love  for  you 
is  but  as  a  sister's  love,  I  cannot  be  more  to  you."  She  veiled  her 


CLARA  MOORE.  339 

eyes  with  one  hand,  as  if  to  hide  the  anguished  expression  of  her 
companion's  face,  and  continued — 

"  To  you,  Julien,  I  owe  a  confession  which  I  thought  should  have 
died  with  me.  When  I  was  young — scarcely  sixteen,  my  mother 
died.  My  father  could  not  endure  the  mournful  loneliness  of  our 
village  home  after  she  had  gone,  and  in  the  bustle  and  excitement 
of  business  in  the  city  he  strove  to  forget  all  sad  memories.  It  was 
then  that  I  parted  from  Howard  Beauchamp,  the  only  child  of  our 
village  minister.  His  mother  had  died  in  his  infancy,  and  we  had 
been  almost  constantly  together  from  our  childhood.  Upon  the 
evening  of  our  parting  we  exchanged  promises  of  eternal  constancy. 

"  Months  passed — his  letters  brought  me  the  only  happiness  that 
I  knew,  for  my  father  could  in  no  way  replace  to  me  the  love  which 
in  my  mother's  death  I  lost.     At  length  the  letters  ceased  entirely. 
I  heard  of  his  father's  death,  and  of  his  own  illness,  and  still  I 
wrote,  for  I  could  not  believe  that  he  was  false  to  me.     One  day  a 
note  was  brought  to  me — the  handwriting  was  strange.     I  broke 
the  seal.    It  was  from  a  cousin  of  his  whom  I  had  never  seen,  but  of 
whom  he  had  often  spoken  to  me  as  a  prodigy  of  beauty  and  talent. 
She  wrote  me  that  she  had  nursed  him  during  his  illness — that 
change  of  air  had  been  prescribed  by  the  physician,  and  that  he  had 
accompanied  her  to  her  Southern  home,  where  it  was  now  his  inten 
tion  to  reside.     In  delicate  and  sympathizing  words  she  wrote  of 
the  transferral  of  Howard's  love  from  me,  to  her,  his  cousin — of 
their  strong  attachment  for  each  other,  and  her  earnest  wish  that  I 
would  not  tell  him  that  she  had  written.     '  Not  for  my  sake  do  I 
write  this,'  she  said,  'but  for  his,  whose  happiness  is  dearer  to  me 
than  life  itself.'    There  was  but  one  course  before  me.     I  summoned 
all  my  pride,  and  wrote  to  him  what  I  imagined  I  ought  to  feel,  not 
what  I  did.     I  made  no  allusion  to  his  cousin.     I  told  him  that  I 
loved  him  no  longer ;  I  wrote  a  great  deal  that  was  false,  but  I 
fully  intended  to  make  it  truth.     Years  passed — we  travelled  all 
over  the  United  States,  and  I  heard  no  more  from  Howard  Beau- 
champ.     When  at  Newport  you  saved  my  life,  and  added  to  it  the 
offering  of  your  own,  I  felt  toward  you  more  affection  than  had 
been  awakened  for  years ;  but  I  was  deceived  with  regard  to  my 


340  CLARA   MOORE. 

true  feelings ;  for,  Julien,  they  can  never  be  more  than  those  of  a 
sister." 

Bitter,  indeed,  were  these  words  to  Julien  Neville — doubly  bitter 
because  he  knew  Gertrude  too  well  to  doubt  the  strength  of  an 
attachment  which  would  enable  so  proud  a  spirit  to  endure  the 
mortification  of  such  a  confession.  Yet  with  all  his  disappointment, 
he  could  find  no  heart  to  blame,  even  for  an  instant,  the  stricken 
form  before  him. 

"  Oh !  Gertrude,"  he  said,  "  nothing  can  change  my  love  for  you, 
and  I  will  not  even  ask  yours  in  return.  I  will  strive  to  be  satis 
fied  with  a  sister's  affection,  only  give  me  the  blessed  privilege  of 
ever  remaining  near  you  to  cherish  and  protect." 

"  It  cannot  be,  Julien.  I  know  how  free  from  selfishness  your 
love  is ;  and  I  know  that  could  you  see  the  wild  emotions  which  the 
recalled  memories  of  those  hours  have  this  day  awakened,  you 
would  never  wish  me  to  be  other  to  you  than  I  am.  This  must  be 
our  last  meeting,  Julien,  unless  you  will  promise  not  to  use  one 
persuasion  to  induce  me  to  change — not  that  I  fear  my  own 
strength,  but  because  every  effort  which  you  make  will  only  increase 
the  misery  which  I  now  feel." 

Hours  passed  before  that  promise  was  given. 

Poor  Julien  Neville  !  He  left  Gertrude  that  night  with  the  full 
belief  that  in  all  the  world  there  was  no  balm  for  a  heart  so 
wounded  as  his  own. 


When  Gertrude  entered  her  father's  library  early  the  next  morn 
ing,  she  found  him  sleeping  lethargically  in  his  large  arm-chair. 
Wondering  that  he  should  be  up  so  much  sooner  than  his  custom — 
or  that  he  could  thus  sleep  when  he  knew  of  his  utter  ruin,  she 
looked  in  surprise  upon  him. 

She  knew  not  that  all  the  weary  night  he  had  paced  the  room, 
weeping  in  bitter  agony  over  the  loss  of  his  worshipped  wealth. 

Drawing  closer  to  him,  she  said — "  Father,  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you,  will  you  listen  ?"  There  was  no  answering  sound,  save 


CLARA   MOORE.  341 

those  of  his  heavy  breathings.     Alarmed,  she  took  hold  of  him  by 
the  shoulder. 

"Father!  father!"  she  screamed. 

The  piercing  tones  of  her  voice  aroused  him — he  started,  looked 
around,  passed  one  hand  hurriedly  over  his  eyes,  and  then  with  a 
long  sigh  sank  back  in  his  chair  again. 

Relieved  from  her  anxiety,  Gertrude  drew  a  seat  beside  him. 

"  I  have  come,  father,  to  converse  with  you  about  your  misfor 
tunes — perhaps  they  are  not  so  bad  as  you  imagine." 

"All  is  lost!  every  cent!"  replied  Mr.  Leslie,  in  a  husky  tone 
of  voice ;  "  but  it  will  make  no  difference  to  you,  Gertrude,  for 
Julien  is  a  noble  fellow ;  but  it  is  hard  for  me  in  my  old  age  to  be 
dependent  upon  my  child." 

"  We  will  not  be  dependent  upon  Julien,  father — we  will  go  back 
to  our  old  place  at  Elmwood,  and  I  can  teach  music  and  drawing 
in  the  village  academy,  and  we  shall  be  as  happy  as  we  have  ever 
been  here ;  for,  father,  I  do  not  love  Julien  as  I  ought  to  love  him, 
and  I  have  told  him  so,  and  we  have  parted  to  meet  only  hereafter 
as  friends." 

The  words  which  she  had  so  dreaded  to  say  had  now  escaped  her 
lips,  and  her~father's  stern  gaze  was  fixed  steadily  upon  her. 

"  Gertrude  !  what  have  you  done  ? — taken  away  my  only  hope  ! 
— turned  us  both  out  into  the  world  as  beggars  !  I  tell  you  every 
cent  is  gone :  beggars !  beggars  !"  he  repeated  in  a  low,  deep  tone. 
He  arose  from  his  seat — his  face  crimsoning  with  excitement — 
stepped  but  one  foot  forward,  then  fell  over  heavily  upon  the  floor. 

Gertrude's  screams  brought  the  servants  to  her.  Physicians 
were  immediately  summoned,  and  Mr.  Leslie  was  borne  in  an 
unconscious  state  to  his  room.  They  pronounced  him  in  an  apo 
plectic  fit,  but  the  usual  remedies  were  tried  in  vain.  Gertrude 
sat  constantly  beside  him,  watching  for  hours  for  some  sign  of 
returning  consciousness.  At  length  the  hand  which  she  held  moved 
slightly. 

"  Oh,  father  !"  she  cried,  "  speak  to  me  once  more :  do  not  leave 
me  alone!  oh,  father !  father!" 

The  agonized  tones  of  her  voice  seemed  to  arouse  him.     His 


342  CLARA    MOORE. 

lips  moved.     She  bent  her  head  to  listen,  and  caught  the  words, 

"  God  bless  my  poor  child ;  God  bless  thee,  Ger ,"  his  lips  still 

moved,  but  there  came  no  audible  sound. 
Poor  Gertrude  !     She  was  now  alone  ! 


At  twilight,  when  Gertrude  entered  the  lonely  grave-yard,  she 
met  Howard  Beauchamp  just  emerging  from  an  avenue  of  cedars. 
He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  advancing  said — 

"We  were  friends  once ;  may  I  hope  that  we  still  are?" 

Gertrude  could  not  speak,  but  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to 
answer  his  greeting. 

"  Time  has  brought  many  changes  to  both  of  us,"  he  continued ; 
"  in  this  place  of  graves,  your  sainted  mother  and  my  revered 
father  sleeps  ;  but  since  I  have  become  an  orphan — alone  and  deso 
late  in  the  world,  I  have  heard  but  little  of  you,  excepting  of  your 
marriage  ;  I  trust  for  your  sake,  Gertrude,  that  the  mourning  gar 
ments  which  you  now  wear  are  not  a  widow's  weeds." 

Gertrude  Leslie  looked  in  surprise  upon  him  as  she  answered — 

"  I  have  never  been  married,  Howard  ;  it  is  for  my  father  that 
I  mourn." 

A  sudden  ray  of  joy  illuminated  his  fine  face,  then  died  away 
as  he  said  in  sad,  low  tones — 

"  And  you  are  an  orphan,  too  ;  but  oh  !  not  so  desolate  an  one, 
I  trust,  as  myself." 

"  And  why  should  I  not  be,  Howard  ? — the  blow  which  deprived 
me  of  my  father  left  me  penniless — well-nigh  friendless ;  but  you 
in  your  cousin's  love  have  found  a  happiness  which  I  can  never 
hope." 

She  saw  the  crimson  glow  which  spread  over  the  marble  features 
of  her  companion. 

"  Then  you  too  know  of  her  unfortunate  attachment — poor 
Ellen  !  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  feel  more  than  a  brother's  attach 
ment  to  her ;  the  memory  of  my  youthful  love,  Gertrude,  is  too 
strong  to  bear  to  be  replaced,  even  in  imagination,"  said  Howard, 
as  he  bent  his  dark  eyes  searchingly  upon  hers. 


CLARA  MOORE.  343 

"And  you — you,  Howard — are  not  you  married?"  questioned 
Gertrude,  almost  breathless,  as  her  eyelids  drooped  under  the 
steadiness  of  his  gaze. 

"  No,  Gertrude ;  the  vows  which  I  plighted  to  you  were  too 
solemn  ever  to  he  broken,  even  though  you  gave  them  back  with 
scornful  words  and  bitter  mockings.  Do  you  not  remember  that 
on  the  evening  of  our  parting  I  promised  ever  to  love  you,  and  you 
alone?" 

As  Gertrude  raised  her  eyes  to  answer,  she  saw  the  figure  of  a 
graceful  female  gliding  toward  them  in  the  dim  twilight. 

"  It  is  my  cousin,  Ellen  Beauchamp,"  Howard  said. 

They  were  leaning  upon  the  marble  tomb  of  Mrs.  Leslie ;  and 
Ellen  advancing  stood  beside  them.  Her  cheeks  were  pale  and 
transparent ;  and  the  large,  brilliant  eyes  were  sunken,  yet  there 
were  many  traces  of  exceeding  beauty. 

"  You  must  neither  of  you  curse  me,  for  I  have  suffered  enough," 
she  said. 

"Why  should  we  curse  you,  dear  Ellen?"  said  Howard,  ten 
derly — "my  poor  cousin  is  not  well,  Gertrude — she  was  the  most 
faithful  of  nurses  to  me  when  I  was  so  ill  that  my  life  was  despaired 
of,  and  she  has  never  been  well  since — we  are  travelling  now  with 
her — her  mother  and  myself,  in  hopes  of  restoring  her  health — 
poor  Ellen  !" 

"Yes,  poor  Ellen!"  echoed  the  hollow  voice  of  the  emaciated 
form  beside  him — "poor  Ellen  needs  pity.  Gertrude,  will  you 
promise  to  pity  me  if  I  tell  you  all  ?" 

"  No,  Ellen,  not  pity ;  but  my  heart's  warmest  sympathy  I  will 
offer  to  you."  Tears  dropped  like  rain  from  Ellen's  large  eyes  as 
she  clasped  the  hand  which  Gertrude  had  extended. 

"Oh,  Gertrude !  I  wrote  falsely  to  you,  when  I  told  you  that 
Howard  no  longer  loved  you.  I  was  mad  with  love  for  him — so 
mad  that  I  forgot  that  you  had  a  heart  which  could  be  crushed 
even  as  mine  is  now.  Howard !  I  burned  the  letters  which  you 
penned  in  your  first  sickness — I  burned  all  which  she  wrote  to  you. 
I  wrote  to  her,  and  told  her  that  you  loved  her  not,  that  you  waited 
but  a  release  from  your  vows  to  breathe  them  to  me ;  and  then  I 


344  CLARA  MOORE. 

told  you  that  she  was  married,  and  I  showed  you  the  letter  which 
I  had  goaded  her  on  to  write.  In  the  relapse  which  followed  your 
reading  of  that  letter  I  would  have  told  you  all,  but  you  looked  so 
gently  and  tenderly  upon  me,  I  could  not  bear  to  tell  you  what  a 
wretch  I  was.  Has  my  repentance  come  too  late  to  either  of  you  ? 
Have  I  sinned  past  forgiveness  ?  Oh  !  believe  me,  I  have  suffered 
enough  in  the  agony  of  my  unloved  life — in  the  memory  of  those 
false  words,  which  I  fear  have  perjured  my  soul  for  ever." 

"  No,  Ellen ;  not  for  ever.  Repentance  never  comes  too  late. 
God  will  forgive  you,  even  as  I  know  Gertrude  and  myself  have 
already  done — have  we  not,  dear  Gertrude?" 

It  was  the  first  word  of  love,  and  Gertrude  bent  her  head  to  con 
ceal  the  warm  blushes  which  crimsoned  her  face  ;  but  as  she  did  so, 
she  kissed  the  delicate  hand  of  Ellen,  which  she  still  retained. 

When  they  passed  out  of  the  grave-yard,  Ellen  and  Gertrude 
each  leaned  upon  an  arm  of  Howard  Beauchamp — Ellen  still  "  sow 
ing  in  tears,"  and  Gertrude  and  Howard  "reaping  in  joy." 


ANN  E.  PORTER. 


Miss  LYDIA  ANN  EMERSON  was  born  October  14,  1816,  at  Newbury- 
port,  Massachusetts,  where  was  her  home,  except  when  away  at  school,  till 
1833.  In  that  year  she  went  to  Royalton,  Vermont,  as  an  assistant  teacher 
in  the  Academy  of  that  place. 

Her  mother  died  when  she  was  but  two  years  old,  and  at  four  she  was, 
with  brothers  and  sisters,  under  the  care  of  a  stepmother.  Between  three 
and  four  years,  from  her  thirteenth  to  her  seventeenth  year,  she  enjoyed 
a  regular  course  of  instruction  at  the  celebrated  Ipswich  Female  Academy. 

In  1834,  she  went  to  Springfield,  Vermont,  and  established  a  Select 
School,  which  met  with  eminent  success. 

In  1836,  she  was  invited  to  the  charge  of  the  Southampton  Academy, 
but  was  early  induced  to  remove  to  Putnam,  Ohio — where  she  became  the 
principal  of  a  newly  opened  Female  Seminary.  During  four  years'  resi 
dence  at  this  interesting  place,  she  experienced  many  of  those  incidents 
of  western  life,  so  soul-stirring  to  the  young  emigrant.  Those  only  who 
have  enjoyed  the  sociality  of  life  in  a  new  country,  or  the  hospitality  of  an 
earlier  age,  will  be  likely  to  appreciate  the  recollections  of  a  lone  female 
instructor,  thus  employed  among  strangers.  It  is  hoped  that  her  con 
nexion  with  that  seminary  and  community  is  still  remembered  by  her 
pupils  and  their  friends,  as  it  is  by  herself,  with  interest  and  enjoyment. 

Newark,  Ohio,  was  the  home  of  another  year  in  Miss  Emerson's  diver 
sified  life;  and  the  year  1841  was  spent  most  agreeably  at  that  place  in 
charge  of  the  female  department  of  "  Delaware  Academy,"  at  the  Springs. 
Here,  too,  the  social  freedom  peculiar  to  frontier  civilization,  had  influ 
ences  on  mind  and  memory,  often  recurred  to  with  pleasure. 

In  the  autumn  of  1841,  Miss  Emerson  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  Charles 
E.  Porter,  of  Springfield,  Vermont,  and  she  has  ever  since  been  a  resident 
of  that  place. 

Mrs.  Porter  has  been  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  periodical  press 
44  (345) 


346  ANN  E.   PORTER. 

since  the  year  1834  :  of  late,  under  her  own  signature.  Her  thoughts  and 
sketches,  though  hasty,  have  endeared  her  to  many  friends.  She  has  also 
contributed  two  small  volumes  towards  the  Sunday  School  Library.  But 
the  labours  of  love,  and  the  duties  of  domestic  life,  have  not  as  yet  per 
mitted  that  concentration  of  her  powers  upon  any  extended  work,  which 
some  who  know  her,  anticipate,  when  an  appropriate  occasion  shall  come. 


COUSIN  HELEN'S  BABY. 

YOUR  letter,  dear  cousin,  is  before  me,  for  I  am  resolved  to  do, 
what  is  somewhat  unusual  among  our  sex,  ansiver  it;  that  is,  give 
a  reply  to  all  the  questions  contained  therein,  and,  if  possible, 
attend  to  the  most  important  before  I  come  to  the  postscript.  You 
begin  as  follows  : — 

"  How  in  the  world  am  I  to  write  this  letter  with  my  baby  ?" 

Well,  it  seems  from  your  own  statement  at  the  close,  as  well  as 
from  sundry  other  unmistakeable  signs,  such  as  a  few  blots,  paper 
a  little  "crumpled,"  and  a  few  extra  flourishes,  that  you  did 
actually  accomplish  the  thing,  and  that,  too,  with  the  baby  in  the 
room,  and  part  of  the  time  in  your  arms. 

"Impossible  !"  said  Napoleon ;  "let  that  word  be  struck  out  of 
my  dictionary."  Alas !  we  poor  mothers  often  find  in  our  pathway 
rugged  Alps  to  climb,  but,  almost  always,  ingenuity  and  patience 
will  work  a  way  around  the  jagged  rocks,  or  through  the  narrow 
defiles. 

"Oh,  this  baby  tending!"  you  next  exclaim;  and,  from  the 
heavy  tread  of  the  pen  and  the  big  admiration  point,  it  seems  to 
come  from  a  spot  deeper  than  the  German  gutturals ;  I  conclude, 
even  from  the  bottom  of  your  heart,  for  you  go  on  to  say,  "  Oh  ! 
if  these  husbands,  who  can  commence  and  finish  their  business  at 
stated  hours,  and  do  everything  by  the  clock,  could  know  how  tedi 
ous  is  the  tread-mill  path  of  one  who  has  a  troublesome,  crying 
baby  to  manage,  they  would  certainly  try  to  initiate  themselves 
into  the  mystery  of  baby  tending,  and  aid  us  more." 

Really,  Ann,  I  had  supposed  you  possessed  of  different  ideas  of 
woman's  cares  and  man's  duties  ;  or  have  you  become  an  ultra 
woman's  rights  partizan,  or  are  you  so  clear-sighted  as  to  understand 


ANNE.  PORTER.  347 

Miss  Fuller's  "  Woman  in  the  nineteenth  century  ?"  If  so,  my 
humble  experience  will  be  of  little  avail ;  for,  as  a  wife  and  mother,  I 
have  trod  a  lowly  path,  and  never  dared  step  foot  into  the  balloon 
of  transcendentalism. 

Again  you  say :  "  If  one  child  is  so  much  care,  how  can  you 
manage  five  ?" 

Well  might  you  ask,  and  I  would  answer,  if  you  find  that  one, 
as  you  say,  makes  you  half  crazy,  five  will  certainly  send  you  to  the 
insane  asylum,  unless  upon  the  homoeopathic  principle,  "  that  which 
kills  will  cure."  But,  the  truth  is,  you  lived  in  such  a  still,  orderly 
way  so  long  after  your  marriage,  that  the  change  seems  more  strik 
ing  to  you,  and  the  care  more  onerous  than  it  really  is. 

"  But  for  a  chapter  of  your  experience  ;"  and  you  shall  have  it ; 
for,  on  glancing  back  upon  what  I  have  written,  I  find  that  it  has 
a  dictatorial  air,  which  it  ill  becomes  me  to  assume ;  and,  to  punish 
myself,  I  will  give  you  a  little  sketch  of  my  management  with  my 
first  baby,  that  you  may  see  I  was  far  behind  yourself  in  prudence 
and  skill. 

Need  I  tell  any  one  who  has  been  a  mother,  of  the  joy  which 
one  experiences  at  the  birth  of  her  first-born  ?  It  is  like  the 
glorious  sunlight  of  morning  after  a  night  of  storm  and  darkness ; 
yea,  like  the  rapture  of  heaven  to  the  weary  spirit,  when  she  folds, 
for  the  first  time,  the  young  immortal  to  her  bosom,  and  breathes 
from  a  full  heart  her  gratitude  to  God.  At  least,  such  were  my 
own  feelings  when  my  eldest,  my  precious  child  Arthur,  was  born. 

I  had  read  Grahame  and  Alcott,  and  a  score  of  other  writers 
upon  the  management  of  infants,  and  thought  myself  quite  wise — 
certainly  capable  of  criticising  others — but  now,  all  my  wisdom  for 
sook  me,  and  I  felt  ignorant  as  a  child.  Our  means  were  limited, 
and  we  were  not  able  to  hire  just  such  help  as  we  wished ;  but  an 
old  woman,  who  had  had  some  little  experience,  was  engaged,  and 
so  confident  was  she  of  her  own  abilities,  that  I  yielded  implicitly 
to  her  directions.  When  I  remonstrated  upon  the  use  of  pins,  she 
exclaimed,  "  Lawful  sake,  ma'am !  do  you  expect  me  to  use  these 
ere  strings  and  loops  ?  I  never  did  afore,  and  you  can't  expect  me 


348  ANN   E.    PORTER. 

to  begin  now ;  besides,  what  kind  er  shape  suppose  your  baby'll 
be,  if  I  don't  pin  it  up  snug  and  tight  now  ?" 

Feeble  as  I  then  was,  I  could  do  little  for  myself  or  the  babe, 
but  I  would  sometimes  quiet  its  cries  by  stealthily  loosening  its 
clothes  as  it  lay  by  my  side.  My  child  was  scarcely  two  days  old 
before  my  kind  neighbours  began  to  pour  in  with  their  sympathy 
and  congratulations.  Too  timid  to  refuse  them  admittance,  and  too 
weak  to  endure  company,  I  suffered  much,  and  yet  the  scenes  were 
sometimes  so  comical  I  could  not  help  laughing.  Some  days  quite 
a  number  would  call  at  once.  Mrs.  Higgins,  and  Aunt  Lucy,  and 
old  Mrs.  Gove,  were  in  one  day  together. 

"What  a  nice  fat  baby!"  said  the  last,  who  had  just  entered; 
"for  all  the  world  the  very  image  of  its  father" — (it  had  just  been 
pronounced  "  as  like  to  me  as  two  peas") — "  and  not  a  mark  about 
it ; — why  my  John  has  an  apple  on  his  forehead,  and  a  strawberry 
on  his  great  toe.  I  hope  you've  given  the  little  thing  some  physic, 
Mrs.  Bagly." 

"La,  yes,"  said  the  latter,  bridling  up  ;  "I  always  gives  caster 
He  the  first  thing — nothing  better,  you  know." 

"  And  then,  I  suppose,  you  feed  it  some,  till  its  mother  has  milk 
sufficient?" 

"The  little  darling  don't  suffer,  I  can  tell  you,"  answered  the 
nurse,  proudly.  "  I  take  the  top  of  the  milk  and  sweeten  it  up 
well,  and  it  has  as  much  as  it  can  take.  Mrs.  Wadsworth  talked 
about  leaving  things  to  nater,  but  I  tell  her  I  guess  nater  would 
leave  her  if  I  didn't  stick  by." 

"  I  hope,  in  all  conscience,  you  won't  get  any  of  these  new 
fangled  notions  into  your  head,"  said  Mrs.  Higgins.  "  You'll 
sartinly  kill  your  baby  if  you  do.  Why  our  minister's  wife  is  half 
crazy  with  her  book  laming  about  babies.  She  washes  hers  all 
over  in  cold  water  every  morning,  and  e'en  amost  starves  it,  too ; 
for  no  matter  if  it  cries  ever  so  hard,  she  won't  feed  it  till  the  time 
comes,  as  she  calls  it,  and  that's  once  in  three  hours.  If  she  warn't 
the  minister's  wife,  I  believe  the  selectmen  would  take  the  matter 
up ;  but  I  eased  my  conscience  by  giving  her  a  piece  of  my  mind." 

"  I  didn't  say  a  word  when  she  was  at  our  house,"  said  the 


ANN   E.    PORTER.  349 

kind-hearted  Aunt  Lucy,  "  but  I  was  a  feeding  it  with  apple  pie — 
nothing  in  the  world  but  plain  apple  pie,  'twouldn't  hurt  a  flea — 
when  she  come  along,  and,  in  her  pleasant  way,  said,  c  I  would 
rather  the  baby  have  nothing  to  eat,  Mrs.  Nutting.'  I  was  most 
scared,  for  fear  I'd  done  something  sinful." 

Arthur  was  now  trying  the  use  of  his  little  lungs,  and  powerfully, 
too,  much  to  the  discomfort  of  the  guests  and  myself. 

"  Can't  you  give  the  child  something  to  quiet  it  ?"  said  Aunt 
Lucy.  "  Some  catnip  tea  would  be  good." 

"  Not  half  so  good  as  piny  root,"  said  Mrs.  Higgins,  "  or  some 
camphor  sling." 

"Now,  that  reminds  me,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Gove,  "of  one  injury 
that  these  temperance  societies  have  done.  Babies  didn't  use  to 
cry  so  when  I  was  young ;  and  I  never  thought,  when  I  had  a  baby, 
that  I  could  do  without  a  decanter  of  gin.  There's  nothing  like  it 
for  the  cholic ;  and  then  it  would  strengthen  you  up,  Mrs.  Wads- 
worth,  and  set  you  right  upon  your  feet  again.' 

"  That's  just  what  I  tell  her,"  said  the  nurse  ;  "but  there  ain't 
a  drop  in  the  house,  and  Mr.  Wadsworth  says  that  he  prefers  not 
to  use  it  unless  the  doctor  prescribe." 

"Well,  well,  every  one  to  their  notion,"  said  Mrs.  Higgins. 
"  I'm  not  certain  but  soot  tea  will  answer  the  purpose  as  well — 
that's  one  of  my  favourite  remedies." 

"I  must  go  now,"  said  Aunt  Lucy,  as  she  rose  to  depart,  "for 
my  old  man  will  be  wanting  his  supper ;  but  between  sundown  and 
dark  I'll  run  over  with  some  arbs,  catnip  and  sage,  and  thorough- 
wort.  I  reckon  I  can  cure  the  baby." 

In  the  mean  while  I  had  exerted  all  my  strength  to  hush  the 
little  sufferer,  and  he  now  lay  asleep  upon  my  arm ;  but  I  was 
covered  with  a  profuse  perspiration,  and,  as  soon  as  the  child  was 
removed,  fell  back  exhausted. 

The  next  day,  about  the  same  hour,  Arthur  commenced  crying 
again,  and  it  continued  so  long  and  loud  that  I  became  thoroughly 
alarmed.  Poor  Mrs.  Bagly  did  her  best,  but  all  in  vain.  I  re 
moved  the  pins  and  loosened  his  dress,  but  it  did  no  good,  he  cried 
without  ceasing. 


350  ANN   E.   PORTER. 

"There  now,"  said  Mrs.  Bagly,  "don't  worry  any  more,  and 
I'll  give  him  something  that  will  make  him  sleep  sweetly." 

"  Not  camphor  sling  ?"  I  said,  inquiringly. 

"  La,  no  ;  now  don't  be  so  scared.  I'll  just  go  into  the  kitchen 
and  take  my  pipe  and  let  the  smoke  of  the  tobacco  go  into  a  bowl 
of  water,  and  then  I'll  sweeten  some  of  that  water  and  give  it  to 
him;  it  will  make  him  so  easy  and  still." 

This  was  something  so  novel,  that  I  hardly  knew  what  to  say ; 
it  seemed  a  strange  medicine  for  a  babe,  and  yet  she  assured  me 
that  she  had  used  it  a  hundred  times,  and  that  it  was  harmless. 
But  the  screams  of  the  child  continuing,  I  allowed  her  to  do  as  she 
pleased,  though  I  said,  faintly — 

"  I  hope  his  father  won't  smell  the  smoke  when  he  comes  in  to 
see  the  baby;  he  perfectly  despises  the  weed,  as  he  calls  it." 

Mrs.  Bagly  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  the  room :  "  Well,  I'm 
beat  now !  I  never  heard  of  a  lawyer  before  that  didn't  cJtaw,  nor 
smoke,  or,  at  least,  take  snuff.  Why,  Squire  Tappan  never  come 
to  see  my  old  man,  but  he'd  out  with  his  box,  and  '  Won't  you  take 
a  pinch,  Mrs.  Bagly  ?'  He  was  a  smart  man,  I  can  tell  you,  and 
I  believe  it  was  the  tobacco  put  the  grit  into  him.  He  never  spoke 
but  he  had  a  pinch  between  his  thumb  and  finger,  and  it  was  scat 
tered  as  thick  among  his  books  and  papers  as  a  French  stew  with 
pepper." 

"  Well,  well,  Mrs.  Bagly,  my  baby  will  cry  itself  to  death  if 
something  isn't  done." 

"  I  know  it,  ma'am ;  it  will  certainly  bust  itself  if  it  don't  have 
the  smoked  water ;"  and  she  disappeared  to  fetch  it. 

"  Oh,  dear,"  I  groaned  within  myself,  "  I  wish  Charles  were 
here,  perhaps  he  could  aid  me;"  but  he  was  gone  to  the  next 
village,  and  would  not  be  at  home  for  some  hours. 

The  nurse  was  not  long  absent,  and  taking  the  child  in  her  lap 
fed  it  freely.  Its  cries  ceased,  and  it  soon  fell  asleep.  With  a 
feeling  of  relief  I  flung  myself  upon  the  bed,  while  she  wrapped 
little  Arthur  in  his  blanket,  laid  him  in  his  cradle,  and  left  the  room 
to  attend  to  her  duties  in  the  kitchen. 

I  soon  fell  into  a  quiet  sleep,  and  I  know  not  how  long  I  had 


ANN   E.   PORTER.  351 

lain,  when  a  slight  rustling  disturbed  me.  I  opened  my  eyes,  and 
saw  my  dearest  friend,  Mary  Porter,  near  me. 

"Why  have  you  not  been  to  see  me  before?"  I  said,  rather 
reproachfully. 

"  I  have ;  but  when  you  were  asleep.  I  thought  I  must  see  you 
and  the  baby,  so  I  stole  in  at  that  time,  for  I  knew  company  would 
injure  you,  and  I  feared  we  would  talk  too  much.  There  now,  go 
to  sleep  again,  and  I  will  watch  by  the  cradle — you  must,  or  I  shall 
leave." 

Seeing  her  resolute,  I  tried  to  obey,  but  I  could  not  refrain  from 
opening  my  eyes  to  look  at  her,  it  seemed  so  pleasant  to  have  her 
near  me.  She  sat  in  a  low  rocking-chair  by  the  side  of  the  cradle. 

She  watched  for  a  while  the  sleeping  babe,  and  then  I  saw  her 
stoop  and  place  her  ear  as  if  listening  to  its  breathing ;  then,  rising, 
she  knelt  over  it,  and  taking  one  hand,  held  it  for  a  moment  and 
let  it  drop,  then  she  did  the  same  with  the  other.  Removing  the 
covering,  she  felt  its  little  feet,  and  held  them  awhile  in  her  hands. 
I  thought  for  the  moment  she  was  rather  childish.  After  again 
covering  the  child,  she  drew  the  curtains  of  my  own  bed  close 
around  me,  and  then,  as  I  thought,  removed  the  cradle  farther 
from  my  bed,  and  left  the  room. 

I  wondered  what  this  meant,  and  was  about  to  rise  and  go  to  the 
cradle  myself,  when  the  door  gently  opened,  and  I  distinguished 
the  voices  of  Mrs.  Bagly  and  Mary,  though  they  spoke  in  whispers. 

"  Don't  make  such  a  fuss  about  nothing,  Miss  Mary.  Ha'n't  I 
had  children  ?  and  don't  an  old  woman  like  me  know  more  about 
nursing  than  such  a  young  thing  as  yourself?" 

"But  look,  Mrs.  Bagly,  for  yourself,"  and  she  lifted  the  babe 
from  the  cradle. 

I  did  not  wait  for  a  reply,  but  sprang  to  my  feet  and  took  my 
child.  "It's  certainly  dead!"  I  exclaimed,  as,  with  every  muscle 
relaxed,  it  lay  unconscious  in  my  arms. 

"Not  dead,  I  trust,"  said  Mary.  "See,  its  little  heart  yet 
beats." 

I  tried  to  waken  it,  but  in  vain.  It  lay  like  one  in  deep  stupor, 
and,  as  I  believed,  the  stupor  of  death. 


352  ANN  E.    PORTER. 

"We've  killed  it — poisoned  it  with  that  vile  tobacco!"  I  ex 
claimed  ;  and,  in  despair,  I  pressed  it  to  my  bosom  and  wept  like 
a  child. 

"Let  me  take  the  baby,"  said  a  kind  voice,  and  looking  up  I 
recognised  Dr.  Perkins. 

I  held  it  still  more  closely,  while  I  begged  him  to  tell  me  if  there 
was  any  hope.  He  took  the  little  hand  in  his  own,  and  placed  his 
ear  so  that  he  could  distinguish  the  breathing. 

"  I  think  that  we  can  save  your  babe,  Helen ;  but,"  he  added, 
in  a  tone  of  mild  authority,  "you  are  killing  yourself;  go  and  lie 
down,  and  I  will  see  to  the  child." 

He  was  our  family  physician ;  one  to  whom,  from  childhood,  I 
had  been  accustomed  to  look  up  with  reverence.  I  yielded  my 
precious  burthen,  and  reluctantly  obeyed.  My  husband  came  in 
at  that  moment  and  enforced  the  doctor's  direction,  assuring  me 
that  everything  in  their  power  should  be  done  for  the  child. 

But  what  a  night  of  anguish  and  suspense  we  passed !  Morning 
found  the  doctor  still  there ;  for  it  was  not  until  then  that  he  was 
able  to  rouse  the  infant  from  that  dreadful  stupor,  and  then,  for 
days,  it  hovered  on  the  very  verge  of  death.  It  was  a  sad  lesson 
to  a  young  mother. 


E.  W.   BARNES. 


Miss  BARNES  is  a  native,  and  has  been  all  her  life  a  resident,  of  Ports 
mouth,  New  Hampshire.  Her  father  is  by  birth  a  Swede,  the  only  son 
of  an  officer  in  the  Swedish  army.  On  his  arrival  in  this  country  in 
early  youth,  he  was  persuaded  by  a  clergyman  of  Salem  to  change  his 
name  from  Ludwig  Baarnhielm  to  Lewis  Barnes,  for  greater  convenience 
of  pronunciation.  Miss  Barnes  has  published,  in  Annuals  and  Magazines, 
a  considerable  amount  of  prose  and  verse,  all  of  a  very  creditable  charac 
ter.  From  a  prose  tale  published  in  1850,  the  following  sketch  has  been 
selected  as  a  fair  specimen  of  her  style. 


THE  YOUNG  RECTOR. 

THE  crash  startled  from  his  revery  a  pale  student,  who,  in  the 
same  apartment  by  his  solitary  lamp,  sat  poring  over  the  pages  of 
a  ponderous  volume,  while  beside  it,  on  his  writing-desk,  lay  the 
half- written  page  on  which,  with  a  vigorous  and  rapid  pen,  he  wrote 
from  time  to  time,  with  an  energy  which  told  how  every  faculty  of 
his  mind  was  absorbed  in  the  work  before  him.  He  rose  from  his 
task  as  the  shattered  glass  flew  even  over  the  table  at  which  he  sat, 
and,  still  engrossed  in  the  thoughts  which  had  occupied  him  for 
some  hours,  went  mechanically  to  the  window,  thrust  into  the  aper 
ture  some  old  and  worn-out  garment,  and  returned  again  abstract 
edly  to  his  work. 

The  hours  moved  on,  and  no  sound  recalled  him  from  the  intel 
lectual  world  in  which  his  spirit  was  far  away,  except  the  continued 

45  (3£3) 


354  E.    W.    BARNES. 

discord  of  the  elements  without,  and  the  monotonous  ticking  of  the 
old  clock,  which  had  grown  aged  with  the  time-worn  habitation  in 
which  it  had  stood  for  nearly  a  century.  Page  after  page,  glowing 
with  his  own  deep  earnestness  of  spirit,  and  the  rich  imagery  which 
the  study  of  the  Sacred  Volume  and  of  classic  lore  had  taught 
him,  was  filled,  and  at  length  the  young  rector  rose  wearily  from 
his  desk,  and  pressing  his  hand  to  his  aching  brow,  walked  to  the 
window,  and,  for  the  first  time,  seemed  quite  aware  of  the  rude 
conflict  amid  the  elements  of  the  outward  world.  Shading  his 
eyes  from  the  light,  he  peered  out  through  the  shattered  casement. 
"What  a  night,"  thought  he,  "for  the  poor  and  homeless !  and 
ah !  how  many  among  my  parishioners  must  feel  this  keen  and 
cutting  blast  through  the  crevices  in  their  wretched  dwellings  ! 
Would  that  I  could  provide  for  each  a  comfortable  shelter  from  the 
storm  ;  but,  alas  !  my  miserable  pittance  ! — what  does  it  more  than 
keep  together  '  the  mortal  body  and  the  immortal  soul  ?' ' 

With  a  sigh  he  turned  away,  and  drawing  his  chair  in  front  of 
the  fire,  he  stirred  the  expiring  embers,  and  sat  gazing  abstractedly 
into  them,  while  his  thoughts  dwelt  upon  the  different  allotments  of 
good  and  ill  which  fall  to  the  share  of  human  destiny.  He  had 
seen  the  honest  and  deserving  poor  baffled  in  every  effort  to  advance, 
bravely  buffeting  the  billows  of  misfortune,  with  scarce  a  gleam  of 
hope  to  cheer  them  on,  yet  blessing  God  daily  and  hourly  in  their 
hearts  for  the1  good  things  they  received ;  and  he  had  seen  the 
wealthy  revelling  in  their  luxury,  thankless  and  thoughtless,  closing 
the  ear  to  the  appeals  of  starving  poverty,  and  forgetful  even  of 
Him  whose  bounty  they  enjoyed.  Then  came  his  thoughts  down 
to  a  narrower  sphere,  and  dwelt  on  his  own  personal  history.  Far 
back  his  memory  bore  him  to  the  days  of  early  childhood,  to  its 
poverty  and  its  privations.  Then  came  the  labours  and  struggles 
necessary  to  bear  him  through  the  years  of  his  college  life,  upheld 
by  the  resolution  to  develop  by  culture  the  powers  of  a  naturally 
fine  and  vigorous  intellect. 

Re-perusing,  line  by  line,  the  pages  of  his  past  existence,  and 
suffering  a  tear  occasionally  to  fall, — prompted  by  bitter  Memory, 
as  if  to  blot  out  the  record  she  had  made, — the  young  rector  sat  in 


E.    W.    BARNES.  355 

a  half-reclining  position,  in  his  well-worn  arm-chair,  with  his  feet 
upon  the  fender,  and  in  deep  revery  gazed  musingly  into  the 
declining  fire.  Ever  and  anon  it  threw  up  a  fitful  gleam,  that 
reminded  him  of  some  of  the  many  hopes  which  had  arisen  on  his 
horizon,  and  sunk  again  as  soon  in  darkness.  It  was  Christmas 
Eve,  the  eve  preceding  the  great  festival  of  the  Nativity.  Why, 
then,  was  he  gloomy  and  depressed  at  this  hour  of  triumph  to  the 
church  he  loved  ?  Fain  would  he  have  shaken  off  the  sad  fantasies 
which  hung  like  an  incubus  upon  his  spirit,  but  his  efforts  were  in 
vain.  Again  and  again  they  returned  to  the  charge,  and  at  every 
onset  they  became  an  ever-increasing,  darkening  host,  resistless  in 
their  power.  He  tried  to  picture  to  his  imagination  those  happy 
homes,  which  were  drawing  around  them  at  this  festive  season,  as 
round  a  dazzling  nucleus,  the  wanderers  who  had  gone  out  from 
them  on  the  voyage  of  life.  He  fancied  the  happy  meetings  and 
the  glad  welcome  home ;  the  merry  fire  would  sparkle  in  the  grate, 
and  send  forth  its  ruddiest  glow ;  the  cheerful  board  would  be 
spread  ;  merry  hearts  and  merry  voices  would  hail  the  coming  of 
the  "merry  Christmas;"  the  aged  sire,  with  thin,  white  locks, 
would  look  round  with  satisfaction  upon  his  children,  and  his  child 
ren's  children,  as  he  asked  God's  blessing  on  the  festive  cheer. 
Alas  !  these  pictures  but  restored,  with  a  deeper  colouring,  his  own 
sense  of  loneliness  ;  and  yielding  finally  to  its  resistless  sway,  he 
suffered  the  hours  to  wax  and  wane,  all  heedless  of  their  flight :  the 
surging  of  the  great  and  limitless  ocean  on  the  shore  of  time,  and 
its  rapidly  advancing  waves,  affected  him  not.  He  was  alone ; — 
alone  must  he  meet  his  doom. 

Still  not  a  sound  disturbed  the  deepening  silence,  or  broke  in 
upon  his  gloomy  revery,  but  the  same  monotonous  ticking  of  the 
venerable  time-piece,  the  hollow  moaning  of  the  storm,  or  the  faint 
falling  of  the  waning  embers.  He  leaned  his  head  wearily  upon 
his  hand,  and  watched  them  as  they  sunk  and  were  extinguished 
one  by  one.  His  revery  deepened  ;  silence  was  becoming  almost 
audible  ;  a  torpor  was  stealing  over  him ;  but  now,  as  his  gaze  was 
fixed  steadfastly  upon  the  declining  fire,  a  light,  thin  vapour  seemed 
to  rise  from  beneath  it,  and  curling  gently  upward  and  over  it,  par- 


356  E.  W.   BARNES. 

tially  obscured  it  to  his  vision.  Gradually  it  ascended,  wreathed 
itself  over  the  antiquated  fire-place,  stole  softly  up  to  the  ceiling, 
and  wound  its  enfolding  arms  quietly  about  the  old  clock,  till  its 
face  and  hands  became  imperceptible  in  the  pale  lamp-light.  Grow 
ing  denser  as  it  proceeded,  round  and  round  the  time-stained  walls 
it  noiselessly  crept,  and  continued  its  quiet  circuitous  motion,  fold 
within  fold,  filling  up  the  whole  intermediate  space  between  them 
and  the  chair  of  the  young  rector,  and  shutting  out  every  familiar 
object  in  his  desolate  apartment,  till  he  was  hemmed  in  by  an 
impervious  atmosphere.  Closer  and  closer  the  walls  of  his  prison- 
house  were  pressing  upon  him  at  each  moment ;  his  breath  came 
thicker  and  heavier  at  every  inspiration  ;  a  sense  of  oppression,  of 
suffocation,  was  upon  him ;  yet  had  he  no  power  of  motion,  no 
ability  to  seek  relief. 

How  long  he  thus  lay  bound,  manacled,  speechless,  he  knew  not. 
He  heard  no  sound ;  even  the  tempest  seemed  to  have  ceased  its 
moaning  ;  and  he  asked  himself,  "  Must  I  thus  die  ? — is  there  no 
hand  to  aid  ?"  There  was  a  pause,  during  which  it  seemed  as  if 
thought  itself  were  checked  in  its  flow,  and  then  there  was  observa 
ble  a  slight  undulation  in  the  dense  mass ;  it  trembled,  it  wavered, 
it  parted  in  the  midst — moved  slowly,  almost  imperceptibly,  but 
steadily,  and  falling  back  on  either  side,  shaped  itself  gradually 
into  graceful  columns.  First  the  base  appeared,  then  rose  the  shaft, 
and  then  the  finished  capital.  Moving  thence  gently  upward,  it 
threw  its  graceful  mist-wreaths  into  noble  Gothic  arches.  The 
marble  pavement  noiselessly  spread  itself  beneath  his  feet,  and  he 
sat  before  the  high  altar  of  a  great  cathedral.  Upon  it  stood 
seven  golden  candlesticks,  and  in  the  midst  a  golden  censer.  Soft 
moonlight,  tinged  with  the  rainbow  dyes  of  the  stained  glass 
through  which  it  passed,  rested  on  the  surrounding  objects.  There 
was  a  silence,  so  deep,  so  solemn,  that  it  pervaded  his  whole  being ; 
and  then  the  strains  of  the  organ,  soft,  distant,  as  if  amid  the 
spheres,  rolled  through  the  high  arches,  which,  as  they  grew  deeper 
and  louder,  trembled  beneath  the  vibrations. 

Awe-struck,  he  listened,  and  then  voices,  as  of  unseen  angels, 
mingled  in  the  deep  swell,  and  the  "  Stabat  Mater"  poured  its  holy 


E.   W.    BARNES.  357 

strains  on  his  rapt  senses ;  and  his  soul,  lifted,  inspired  by  the 
divine  harmony,  seemed  borne  upward,  even  into  the  presence  of 
the  Holy  One.  With  hands  clasped  and  unconsciously  upraised, 
he  heard  the  strains  die  away  softly  upon  the  ear,  but  the  echoes 
lingered  long  among  the  lofty  arches.  There  was  a  pause,  and  not 
a  sound  of  earth  disturbed  that  hallowed  stillness ;  but,  though  he 
saw  them  not,  he  felt  the  presence  of  angel  forms  around  and 
above  him,  moving  silently  on  their  silver  wings.  Again  breathed 
the  tones  of  the  organ,  and  the  grand  "Te  Deum"  rose  to  the 
"  Lord  God  of  Sabaoth  ;"  and  that  too  died  away  upon  the  ear, 
but  its  heavenly  music  vibrated  long  in  the  listening  spirit. 

Now  from  the  golden  censer  a  soft  and  fragrant  incense  slowly 
ascends  ;  and  with  reverential  awe  he  watches  it,  till,  as  it  higher 
mounts,  the  edges  of  the  light  and  vapoury  folds  are  touched  with 
a  silver  brightness,  as  if  a  glory  from  on  high  had  lightened  them. 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  cloud,  gracefully  reposing,  he  beholds  a 
form  that  has  no  parallel  amid  the  forms  of  earth.  Dimly  and  indis 
tinctly  he  sees  her,  cradled  within  those  misty  folds  ;  and  slowly 
the  silvery  mass  descends  with  its  heavenly  burden,  until  it  rests 
above  the  sacred  altar.  A  holy  influence  steals  over  his  senses — 
an  unspeakable  serenity — a  calm  like  that  of  Gennesareth,  when 
the  voice  of  the  Saviour  spoke  to  the  troubled  waters.  Whence 
comes  the  hallowed  peace,  the  sweet  repose  that  pervades  his 
spirit,  as,  rapt  and  awe-stricken,  he  gazes  on  that  benignant  face  ? 
Ah  !  could  it  be  impressed  for  ever  on  the  mirror  of  his  soul,  never 
more  would  it  reflect  the  blackening  cloud, — never  more  would  it 
be  ruffled  by  the  storm-winds  of  passion,  or  shadowed  by  the  dark 
ness  of  despair.  Would  she  but  speak  to  him  ! — would  she  but 
make  known  her  angel  mission  ! — but  no,  she  does  but  gaze  upon 
him  with  sweetness,  with  pity,  with  benignity.  The  eyes,  so  gen 
tle,  never  for  a  moment  turned  from  his  ;  and,  as  bound  by  a 
resistless  spell,  he  yielded  to  the  repose  which  they  inspired.  He 
was  no  longer  of  the  earth :  purified  by  that  soft  smile  from  every 
trace  of  its  corruptions,  he  basked  in  the  purity  of  that  radiance, 
and  trembled  lest  a  cloud  should  overshadow  it,  lest  the  holy  spell 


358  E.    W.   BARNES. 

should  be  broken.    Oh  !  to  be  ever  thus  —  to  know  such  transcend 
ent  peace  !     This  it  is  to  be  in  communion  with  the  angels. 

And  now  the  beauteous  vision,  with  its  garments  of  silver  vapour, 
stood  upright  upon  the  fleecy  masses  of  the  cloud,  with  her  eye 
unmoved  from  the  face  of  the  entranced  beholder.  Her  left  arm 
slowly  advanced  from  the  mists  around  her,  and,  bending  gently 
towards  him,  she  extended  the  cross,  one  arm  of  it  encircled  by  a 
crown  of  thorns,  the  other  draped  with  the  purple  robe,  and  over 
it  this  motto  :  "  On  earth  thou  wilt  wear  these,  for  thy  Saviour  s 


Deep  was  the  silence  which  followed.  He  moved  not,  spoke  not, 
lest,  like  a  dream,  his  happiness  should  vanish  away.  Soft  strains 
of  music  were  heard  in  the  distance,  growing  fainter  and  fainter, 
till  they  were  lost  upon  the  ear.  And  now  the  right  arm  gradually 
rose,  and  a  taper  finger  pointed  upward.  Following  it  with  his 
eye,  he  descried,  distant  far  and  almost  unseen,  a  crown,  irradiated 
with  a  soft  halo  of  golden  light,  and  bearing  these  words  :  "  This 
aivaits  thee  in  Heaven." 

One  arm  upraised,  and  one  extending  towards  him  the  cross,  her 
eye  riveted  upon  him,  she  stood  motionless  as  a  statue.  Again 
rose  the  soft  strains  of  music,  mingled  with  voices  of  angelic  sweet 
ness.  Her  voice  was  not  heard  among  them,  but  her  gaze  seemed 
reading  the  secrets  of  that  spirit,  still  condemned  to  struggle  a 
while  longer  with  the  cares  of  earth.  To  pity  and  to  soothe  it 
seemed  her  mission  ;  and  that  mission  was  fulfilled,  —  so  calm,  so 
deep  was  the  peace  which  settled  on  his  spirit,  so  elevated  were  his 
thoughts,  and  so  attuned  to  worship.  The  music  continued,  now 
like  the  far  distant  sound  of  many  waters  surging  upon  an  unseen 
shore,  now  nearer  and  nearer,  and  then  floating  upward  and  dying 
away  in  heaven.  It  ceased,  and  he  fancied  that  the  silver  cloud 
was  rising  again,  and  that  the  vision  was  fading  away.  With  an 
irresistible  impulse  he  sprang  forward,  threw  himself  on  his  knees 
before  the  heavenly  vision,  and  extended  his  arms  to  embrace  the 
cross.  Alas  !  in  a  moment  all  had  vanished  ;  the  beautiful  pageant 
was  no  more  ;  and  he  awoke,  to  find  himself  prostrate,  with  out 
stretched  arms,  before  the  desolate  walls  of  his  room.  There  were 


E.    W.    BARNES.  359 

the  remains  of  his  decayed  fire,  there  his  arm-chair,  and  there  the 
old  time-piece,  telling  the  same  monotonous  tale.  The  dawn  was 
not  yet  breaking,  and  his  dim  lamp  was  just  expiring  in  its  socket. 

It  was  indeed  the  old  familiar  scene,  which  had  witnessed  all  his 
struggles,  all  his  tears,  but  which  he  had  briefly  exchanged  for  the 
communion  and  the  minstrelsy  of  heaven.  He  rose,  and  pressed 
his  hand  to  his  brow.  It  was  then  indeed  a  dream,  and  he  had 
been  revelling  amid  the  hallowed  joys  of  "  the  spirit-land  ?"  Yet, 
if  "millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth,"  might  not  this 
be  one,  sent  on  a  mission  of  mercy  to  his  suffering,  struggling 
spirit ;  to  raise  him  from  despondency ;  to  bid  him  bear  on  unmur- 
muringly,  and,  while  wearing  the  cross,  to  look  ever  upward  and 
onward  to  the  promised  crown  ? 

When  the  Hector  awoke  the  next  morning,  the  sun  was  brighter 
to  his  eye,  the  wind  fell  more  softly  on  his  cheek,  and  stirred  the 
light  clustering  hair  upon  his  brow.  He  was  no  more  alone,  for 
that  ministering  angel  had  taken  up  her  abode  within  his  soul,  and 
her  serene  smile  was  fixed  upon  him  ever.  He  loved  the  clouds, 
the  air,  the  earth ;  he  loved  the  glittering  icicle  that  was  melting 
in  tears  beneatn  the  sunbeam  ;  and  he  loved  the  snow-wreath  that 
gracefully  hung  over  the  cottage  porch.  Love — love  to  God,  and 
love  to  man — was  the  prevailing  attribute  of  his  soul ;  and  those 
who  listened  that  day  to  the  voice  of  their  rector  in  his  village 
church,  felt,  though  they  knew  not  why,  a  higher,  fuller  sense  of 
the  "  beauty  of  holiness."  His  words  were  fraught  with  a  new 
energy ;  his  voice  rose  with  his  choir  in  the  full  strains  of  the 
Christmas  anthem;  and  when  he  entered  his  pulpit,  a  new  and 
divine  inspiration  seemed  to  have  touched  his  lips,  as  with  a  live 
coal  from  the  altar. 

That  vision  of  the  night  became  to  the  young  rector  the  vision 
also  of  his  waking  hours ;  and  when  his  congregation  wondered  at 
the  new  traits  which  manifested  themselves  in  his  character, — 
when  they  saw  his  peculiar  serenity  under  all  the  ever-varying 
phases  of  his  existence,  they  saw  not  the  angel  within  the  sanctu 
ary  of  his  spirit,  and  the  hand  that,  pointing  upward  to  the  crown, 
pointed  also  to  the  words — "  This  awaits  thee  in  Heaven." 


ANNE   T.  WILBUR. 


To  translate  well  is  a  rare  accomplishment.  So  far  as  mere  style  and 
language  are  concerned,  translation  is  more  difficult  than  original  compo 
sition.  Among  the  few  who  have  excelled  in  this  line,  may  be  mentioned 
the  lady  whose  name  stands  at  the  head  of  this  article.  Her  translations 
have,  indeed,  the  ease  and  grace  and  the  idiomatic  propriety  of  writings 
of  a  native  growth.  These  translations  have  been  from  the  popular  litera 
ture  of  Europe,  chiefly  from  the  French,  and  have  consisted  mostly  of 
short  tales.  Some  of  them  have  been  published  in  the  form  of  small 
volumes;  others  have  appeared  in  periodicals  of  different  kinds. 

Besides  her  translations,  Miss  Wilbur  has  written  occasionally  original 
articles  for  the  magazines  and  weekly  papers,  under  the  name  of  "  Florence 
Leigh,"  and  has  performed  a  considerable  amount  of  editorial  labour.  As 
editor  of  the  "Ladies'  Magazine, '  published  in  Boston,  in  1848,  and  of 
the  "  Ladies'  Casket,"  published  the  same  year,  in  Lowell,  she  secured 
for  those  works  many  valuable  contributors. 

Miss  Wilbur  was  born  at  Wendell,  Massachusetts,  in  1817.  She  is 
the  daughter  of  the  Kev.  Henry  Wilbur,  of  Newburyport,  extensively 
known  as  a  lecturer  on  astronomy,  and  as  the  originator  of  Bible  Classes. 
The  secluded  life  and  leisure  of  a  village  pastor,  led  him  to  take  unusual 
pains  in  the  instruction  of  his  oldest  child  and  only  daughter.  This,  and 
the  possession  of  a  mind  constitutionally  precocious,  led  to  very  early 
attempts  at  authorship — the  first,  a  school-girl  feat,  achieved  at  the  age 
of  eleven,  entitled  "  Grimalkin,  a  Tragedy,"  and  ending  in  the  destruction 
of  an  entire  family  of  rats. 

Miss  Wilbur  began,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  to  teach,  and  has  been  engaged 
as  a  teacher  until  within  the  last  three  or  four  years,  which  have  been 
occupied  with  literary  labour.  Her  residence  is  Newburyport,  Massa 
chusetts. 

(360) 


ANNE    T.    WILBUR.  361 


ALICE  VERNON. 

A  PLEASANT  company  were  assembled  around  the  breakfast-table, 
and  discussing  their  plans  for  the  day.  In  some  casual  conversa 
tion,  I  heard  a  careless  mention  of  a  name  very  familiar  and  very 
dear — "Mrs.  Vernon."  I  reflected  a  moment, — it  was  a  name 
closely  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  past,  yet  how,  I  could  not 
immediately  recall.  Suddenly  it  came  like  a  lightning  flash — 
Alice  Vernon,  once  Alice  Maitland.  I  inquired  of  the  individual 
who  had  spoken,  and  learnt  that  my  early  friend  had  indeed  been 
the  subject  of  conversation.  I  obtained  her  address,  and  sallied 
forth  to  find  her,  sure  of  a  welcome,  though  we  had  not  met  for 
years. 

A  great  military  and  civic  procession  was  passing  through  the 
streets,  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that  I  made  my  way  into  a 
retired  street  in  a  distant  part  of  the  city.  There,  in  a  modest 
dwelling,  I  found  my  old  friend  Alice.  Herself  and  a  widowed 
mother  were  the  only  occupants.  It  was  scantily  furnished,  but 
bore  the  impress  of  that  exquisite  taste  which  a  truly  refined 
woman  can  throw  over  the  meanest  abode,  giving  to  poverty  attrac 
tions  which  wealth  does  not  always  bestow  upon  its  palaces.  Alice 
had,  in  our  school-days,  been  a  favourite, — not  that  she  was  beau 
tiful,  but  her  simplicity  of  character,  her  upright  and  truthful 
mind,  her  sincere  and  strong  affections,  had  won  friends,  lasting 
and  true,  such  as  she  well  knew  how  to  value.  On  leaving  school 
we  had  been  separated,  and  had  since  rarely  met — nevertheless, 
with  that  interest  which  those  who  have  been  educated  together 
often  continue  to  feel  for  each  other  through  life,  we  had  not  failed 
to  make  inquiries  which  kept  us  informed  of  the  after-fate  of  those 
most  dear  to  us.  That  of  Alice  had  been  so  unlike  the  even  and 
calm  lot  which  we  had  planned  for  her,  as  to  have  excited  the 
surprise  and  wonder  of  us  all. 

I  found  her  busily  at  work,  though  the  street  was  full  of  the 
gathering  multitude,  and  a  branch  of  the  procession  was  forming 
46 


362  ANNE    T.    WILBUR. 

immediately  beneath  the  window.  After  the  first  cordial  greetings 
had  passed,  I  said  to  her,  with  the  authority  which,  as  somewhat 
her  senior  in  years,  I  had  been  accustomed  to  exercise :  "  Come, 
Alice,  put  away  your  work  for  the  day,  and  let  me  take  you  with 
me.  I  am  alone,  and  want  an  escort.  Your  cheek  is  pale,  and 
this  fresh  pure  air  will  give  it  a  little  colour."  "  Go,  Alice,"  said 
her  mother,  "Florence  is  right;  it  will  do  you  good."  A  word 
from  her  mother  was  enough,  and  very  soon  we  were  threading  our 
way  through  the  crowded  streets,  and  talking  with  the  freedom  and 
confidence  of  old  times. 

" Tell  me  your  whole  sad  story,  dearest,"  I  said,  "while  we  are 
alone,  for  but  an  allusion  to  it  has  now  and  then  reached  me,  and 
I  would  know  it  all  from  yourself."  An  expression  of  sudden  pain 
crossed  the  countenance  of  my  friend,  but  it  passed  away,  and  her 
full  heart  was  relieved  by  the  recital,  and  happier,  I  knew,  for  my 
sympathy. 

She  had  married  young.  One  of  whom  we  had  often  heard  her 
speak  as  a  dear  friend  and  brother,  but  in  a  station  so  far  above 
her,  that  she  had  never  dreamed  of  aspiring  to  share  it,  or  that  he 
could  turn  from  the  gay  and  brilliant  flowers  which  lavished  their 
sweets  around  him,  to  cull  a  modest  and  humble  violet,  had  found 
more  fragrance  and  beauty  in  the  latter,  and  passed  by  the  gor 
geous  parterre,  to  pluck  this  and  place  it  in  his  bosom.  Her  married 
life  commenced  under  the  happiest  auspices.  Ernest  Vernon  was 
proud,  but  his  pride  took  the  right  direction ; — he  was  proud  of  his 
own  discernment  in  having  transplanted  the  floweret  which  other 
wise  might  have  bloomed  unheeded,  or  "  wasted  its  sweetness  on 
the  desert  air."  All  the  luxuries  which  wealth  could  purchase 
were  lavished  upon  his  fair  young  wife  ; — he  never  seemed  happy 
away  from  her,  and  bestowed  all  his  love  and  confidence  where  it 
was  gratefully  appreciated  and  returned  a  thousand-fold.  Ernest 
was,  like  herself,  an  only  child,  and  their  happiness  thus  centred 
in  each  other.  No  wonder  that  Alice  almost  worshipped  him.  He 
had  always  been  her  beau  ideal  of  manly  beauty,  and  now  that 
those  radiant  eyes  looked  lovingly  upon  her,  her  heart  often  ached 


ANNE   T.  WILBUR.  363 

with  excess  of  happiness,  and  with  that  fear  which,  in  a  world  of 
change,  comes  like  a  cloud  between  us  and  perfect  repose, — 

That  faint  sense  of  parting,  such  as  clings 
To  earthly  love  and  joy  in  loveliest  things. 

Ernest,  too,  was  happy,  for  his  bride  was  a  realization  of  the 
description  of  his  favourite  poet,  the  embodiment  of  his  ideas  of 
perfection  in  woman. 

He  saw  her  upon  nearer  view 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too ; 

Her  household  motions  bright  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  creature  not  too  light  or  good, 

For  human  nature's  daily  food; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

But  I  must  pass  briefly  over  those  halcyon  days,  and  come  to 
the  dark  cloud  which  first  and  finally  intercepted  the  sunlight. 
Ernest  had,  as  I  have  said,  the  most  entire  confidence  in  his  wife, 
and  was  accustomed  to  reveal  to  her  every  transaction  in  his  busi 
ness  which  could  awaken  her  interest  or  command  her  sympathy. 
On  one  occasion  he  confided  to  her  a  secret  in  which  the  welfare 
and  reputation  of  one  of  his  dearest  friends  was  concerned.  An 
other,  who  had,  through  a  different  channel,  got  possession  of  a  clue 
to  this,  and  who  supposed  Mrs.  Vernon  must  be  aware  of  it,  had, 
in  conversation  with  her,  designedly  asked  a  direct  question,  to 
which  she  could  not  with  truth  give  the  denial  with  which  she 
would  gladly  have  put  an  end  to  his  suspicions.  He  immediately 
made  use  of  his  information,  and  quoted  her  authority  to  con 
firm  it. 

Ernest  returned  home  from  an  absence  of  a  few  days,  to  find  his 
cherished  secret,  involving  the  honour  of  his  friend,  public,  coupled 
with  the  name  of  his  wife  as  the  authority.  He  was  hasty  and 
passionate ;  defects  which  are  oftener  those  of  a  truly  noble  and 
generous  soul  than  a  secret  and  persevering  vindictiveness.  In  his 
anger  he  forgot  that  the  silence  and  passiveness  with  which  Alice 
received  his  reproaches  might  be  evidences  of  suffering  rather  than 


364  ANNE   T.   WILBUR. 

of  guilt,  and  used  language  which,  as  she  thought,  proved  that  his 
affections  were  withdrawn  from  her  for  ever. 

Days  passed  away,  and  there  was  no  relenting ;  Ernest  was  too 
proud  to  ask  an  explanation,  and  Alice  scarcely  knew  of  what  she 
was  accused.  It  was  evident  to  her  that  her  husband  was  alienated 
from  her,  no  matter  how,  and  in  silence  and  in  secrecy  she  formed 
her  plans  and  executed  them. 

It  was  a  bright,  beautiful  summer  morning,  when  Alice  Vernon 
stole  softly  down  in  the  early  twilight  to  bid  adieu  to  the  haunts 
and  associations  of  her  happiest  hours.  Her  flowers  looked  lov 
ingly  upon  her,  and  the  tears  that  gemmed  each  petal  and  leaf 
were  those  of  gratitude  only,  not  sorrow.  All  was  joyous,  save  the 
heart  of  one  who  was  now,  like  Eve,  to  say  farewell  to  her  Para 
dise.  But,  unlike  Eve,  she  went  forth  alone,  with  no  manly  arm 
to  shield  her,  and  no  loving  heart  to  interpose  between  herself  and 
life's  sorrows.  The  lovely  cottage  home  she  was  leaving  had  never 
seemed  more  attractive :  yet  she  had  scarcely  realized  that  it  was 
her  own,  so  far  had  it  exceeded  her  wildest  expectations.  With  a 
few  valued  relics,  and  simple  articles  of  clothing,  which  had  been  a 
part  of  her  own  poor  dowry,  she  sought  her  humble  city  home. 

Months,  years  had  passed  away.  The  slight  difference  which 
had  produced  this  alienation  had  been  increased  by  professed 
friends, — angry  words  borne  to  the  ears  of  the  parties,  and  exag 
gerated  in  the  repetition.  Alice's  only  defensive  weapon  had  been 
silence.  It  may  seem  strange  that  such  a  bond  could  thus  easily 
be  broken.  One  who  is  deeply  read  in  the  mysteries  of  love  mat 
ters  has,  however,  said : 

Alas !  how  slight  a  cause  may  move 
Dissension  between  hearts  that  love  ; — 
Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  has  tried, 
And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied ; 
A  something  light  as  air,  a  look, 

A  word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken, 
A  love  !  that  tempests  never  shook, 

A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  has  shaken. 

We  had  pursued  our  way  around  the  common,  now  one  sea  of 


ANNE   T.    WILBUR.  365 

heads,  and  glittering  with  military  costumes  and  arms.  The  excite 
ment  was  contagious,  and  we  could  not  but  reflect  the  gayety  and 
animation  which  shone  in  every  feature  of  the  various  physiogno 
mies  about  us.  It  was  nearly  time,  however,  to  begin  to  look  for 
the  grand  event  of  the  day — the  procession — so  we  found  a  quiet 
spot  where  we  could  see  the  pageant,  and  sat  down  by  an  open 
window  to  breathe  the  cool- air,  and  listen  to  the  distant  music. 

With  thrilling  fife  and  pealing  drum, 

And  clashing  horn,  they  come !  they  come ! 

Gay  banners  waved,  and  white  plumes  danced  in  the  breeze  ;  shin 
ing  arms,  and  glittering  epaulets ;  regalia  gorgeous  in  purple  and 
gold ;  noble  steeds  and  noble  riders — came  thronging  and  pouring 
through  the  narrow  street,  and,  as  they  passed  slowly  along  often 
pausing,  as  impeded  by  some  obstacle,  we  could  read  the  motto  on 
every  banner,  and  catch  the  expression  of  every  face.  As  I  looked 
at  Alice  I  saw  that  she  had  given  herself  wholly  to  the  excitement 
of  the  scene ;  her  face  was  radiant  with  pleasure ;  and  her  cheek 
but  now  pale,  crimsoned  with  the  flush  of  unaccustomed  interest. 
One  must  indeed  have  been  a  stoic  not  to  have  shared  in  the  general 
enthusiasm  and  joy. 

My  eyes  fairly  ached  with  gazing  on  the  brilliant  array,  and  I 
had  turned  them  for  relief  once  more  upon  the  face  of  my  new 
found  friend,  when  I  saw  her  lip  quiver  convulsively,  and  the  bloom 
which  I  had  but  now  noticed,  suddenly  leave. her  cheek  as  colour 
less  as  before.  She  moved  hastily  from  the  window,  and  looking 
up  to  me  imploringly,  said:  "Take  me  away,  Florence."  As  I 
passed  the  window  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  noble-looking  horseman 
in  the  uniform  of  one  of  the  principal  companies,  and  the  emotion 
which  his  fine  features  revealed,  gave  me  a  clue  to  that  of  my  friend. 

Poor  Alice  !  Alone  in  the  parlour,  and  away  from  the  sights 
which  had  just  before  given  her  such  unwonted  pleasure,  she  threw 
herself  on  the  sofa,  and  wept  bitterly.  "  Dear  Florence,  you  will 
think  me  childish,"  she  said,  when  the  violence  of  the  first  pas 
sionate  burst  of  feeling  had  spent  itself  in  tears ;  "  but  you  must 
have  seen  him — my  Ernest,  my  noble,  my  beloved  husband.  Oh, 


366  ANNE   T.   WILBUR. 

Florence,  you  know  not  how  many  hours  of  bitterness  and  tears  I 
have  spent  in  my  solitude  for  him.  I  ought  not  to  have  come  with 
you  to-day,  for  I  had  a  presentiment  of  this.  Go,  dear  Florence, 
and  leave  me  alone  with  my  heart  till  its  wild  beatings  are  hushed." 

There  are  times  when  grief  is  too  deep  and  sacred  to  endure  the 
presence  of  a  spectator,  and  solitude  is  then  a  luxury  to  the  sorrow 
ing — so  I  obeyed. 

The  bright  day  was  drawing  to  its  close,  and  the  last  remnant 
of  that  long  and  motley  train  was  filing  through  the  street,  when 
the  bell  was  rung  hastily,  as  if  by  an  impatient  hand.  The  ser 
vants  were  not  to  be  found  on  an  occasion  like  this,  so  I  opened 
the  door ;  a  face,  of  which  I  had  before  caught  a  hasty  glimpse, 
once  more  met  my  eye,  and  I  knew  that  Ernest  Vernon  stood 
before  me.  "  Is  Alice  !  Mrs.  Vernon,  here?"  asked  he,  and  on  my 
replying  in  the  affirmative,  followed  me  to  the  room  where  I  had 
left  her.  I  opened  the  door,  and  said  gently,  "  Shall  I  come, 
Alice?"  Without  waiting  for  her  reply,  Ernest  stepped  forward 
and  repeated,  "Alice."  She  hurriedly  looked  up,  and  with  a  cry 
of  joy,  sprang  into  his  arms,  and  was  clasped  to  his  heart.  There 
was  no  need  of  an  explanation,  for  each  read  in  the  face  of  the 
other  restored  confidence,  and  full  forgiveness  of  all  the  past. 


ELIZA   L.   SPROAT. 


Miss  SPROAT  is  known  almost  exclusively  as  a  poet.  All  the  prose 
that  she  has  published,  amounting  at  most  to  not  more  than  three  or  four 
contributions  to  annuals  and  magazines,  is  so  essentially  poetical,  that  it 
seemed  a  matter  of  doubt,  whether  to  include  her  name  at  all  in  the 
present  volume.  Whether  prose  or  poetry,  however,  her  writings  are 
among  the  most  original  and  the  most  beautiful  that  our  current  literature 
affords.  The  article  "  Love  versus  Cupid,"  which  appeared  in  the  June 
number  of  Sartain,  for  1849,  is  alone  sufficient  to  stamp  the  author  as  a 
woman  of  high  genius. 

Miss  Sproat  is  still  very  young.  She  is  a  native,  and  has  always  been 
a  resident,  of  Philadelphia.  The  extract  which  follows,  is  from  the 
Christian  Keepsake  for  1847.  It  is  the  first  piece  she  ever  published. 


THE  ENCHANTED  LUTE. 

ONCE,  in  the  old  days  of  the  fairy  dominion,  two  sisters  sat 
beneath  an  ancient  vine-entangled  tree,  which  overhung  an  old 
stone  fountain. 

They  were  beautiful ;  but  why  should  they  hide  their  beauty  in 
this  lonely  solitude  ? — yet  not  lonely,  for  Mira  bore  in  her  hand  a 
marvellous  talisman — an  enchanted  lute,  whose  lightest  touch  had 
power  to  waken  the  voices  of  a  thousand  unseen  spirits,  and  reveal 
to  mortal  eye  and  ear  the  wonderful  sealed  mysteries  of  Nature. 
As  yet,  its  power  had  never  been  challenged ;  but  the  sisters  had 
been  told,  that  if,  at  the  dim  solemn  hour  between  the  night  and 
morning,  they  would  venture  to  sit  alone  by  the  haunted  fountain, 

1367) 


333  ELIZA    L.    SPRO AT. 

they  could  find  the  key  to  its  music ;  that  they  could  then  discover 
the  master-tone  which  should  rule  their  future  destiny. 

For  a  time  they  sat  in  awe ;  for,  as  the  night-breeze  swept  over 
the  instrument,  they  were  oppressed  with  a  strange  sense  of  the 
surrounding  invisible  presence. 

"Let  us  try  the  spell,"  at  length  said  Mira;  "a  little  low 
sound  is  rising  in  my  heart,  which  may  be  the  key  to  our  music." 

" Pause  yet  a  moment,"  whispered  Ernesta,  "oh!  pause,  my 
sister,  and  think  that  of  all  the  great  world's  harmony,  the  tone 
you  choose  this  day  must  rule  your  life  for  ever." 

"I  have  no  fear,"  said  Mira,  touching  the  outer  chord. 

A  deep  harsh  note  arose  from  the  instrument :  the  trees  reared 
their  heads  towards  the  sky,  and  the  night-winds  raised  their  voices. 
The  weak  vines  in  their  dreaming  clasped  the  trees  convulsively, 
and  seemed  striving  to  climb  to  their  summits. 

Mira  saw  gleaming  eyes  in  the  darkness,  and  heard  the  murmur 
of  strife  in  the  air :  even  the  very  grass-blades  jostled  each  other, 
as  they  stood  side  by  side. 

"Ah!"  said  Mira,  shuddering,  "this  is  Ambition — this  is  not 
the  master-tone  which  should  rule  the  world." 

With  a  trembling  hand  she  touched  the  second  chord.  A  faint 
indefinite  sound,  neither  music  nor  discord,  played  around  the  lute. 
The  trees  swung  carelessly,  and  the  vines  loosed  their  hold ;  the 
clear  waters  stagnated  ;  the  air  was  filled  with  heavy  vapour ;  and 
all  the  while  there  issued  from  the  lute  the  dull  monotonous  tone  of 
indolent  Content.  "  That  is  not  music,"  said  Mira  indignantly. 

"  Once  more,  my  sister,"  said  Ernesta ;  and  again  she  tried  the 
chords. 

A  flash  like  sunlight  played  through  the  darkness; — a  sweet 
rich  strain  arose  from  the  lute,  and  a  richer,  deeper,  sweeter 
music  faintly  re-echoed  the  notes  around.  The  waters  smiled  and 
murmured-;  the  little  flowers  laid  their  cheeks  against  each  other 
like  happy  sleeping  children ;  each  created  thing  responded  to  the 
all-pervading  music  of  Love. 

"This  is  the  tone,"  cried  Mira  enchanted; — "this  is  the  one 
great  master-key  of  existence :  it  is  not  to  toil,  nor  to  strive,  nor 


ELIZA   L.    SPROAT.  359 

to  battle,  that  we  are  placed  in  this  world  of  pleasure — it  is  only  to 
live  and  to  love." 

"  Mira,"  said  her  sister  earnestly,  "try  them  once  again." 

"  Not  again,"  said  Mira ;  "I  have  found  my  life." 

"  But  I  thought,  when  you  touched  the  last  sweet  chord,  that  a 
note  still  sweeter  fell  upon  my  ear ;  try  it,  Mira !" 

But  Mira  heard  her  not — her  heart  was  filled  with  the  music  of 
love  ;  she  had  chosen  her  lot,  and  over  her  the  untried  chords  had 
power  no  more. 

The  hour  had  passed,  and  the  Night  Angel  was  departing.  As 
he  retired,  he  rolled  away  the  soft  dark  mists  in  which  he  had  ten 
derly  enveloped  the  sleeping  earth.  The  violets  opened  their  eyes 
in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  brighter  eyes  which  all  night  long 
had  watched  their  slumbers ;  the  birds  waked  too,  and  looked  out 
from  their  nests ; — but  the  Night  Angel  stood  with  his  finger  on  his 
lip,  and  all  the  world  was  silent. 

Speeding  through  the  dim  air  came  the  Angel  of  the  Morning. 
With  a  pencil  of  flame  he  silently  streaked  the  eastern  sky,  and 
fringed  the  clouds  for  the  reception  of  the  monarch. 

The  morning  breezes  grew  uneasy  in  their  hiding-places  ;  the 
hushed  waters  trembled  with  eagerness;  the  flowers  held  their 
breath ;  the  birds  seemed  bursting  with  long-pent  melody  ; — but 
still,  the  Night  Angel  stood  with  his  finger  on  his  lip,  and  all  the 
earth  waited  in  silence. 

Silence ! 

The  Sun !  the  Sun !  with  a  warm  sudden  kiss  he  greets  the 
earth — the  spell  of  the  night  is  broken ;  all  nature  rises  with  a 
shout,  and  from  a  thousand  thousand  tongues  bursts  forth  the 
imprisoned  melody.  How  the  trees  wave  their  arms !  how  the 
singing  waters  glance  and  sparkle !  how  the  forest  gossips  nod 
their  heads  to  one  another,  and  the  busy  happy  breezes  hurry  to 
and  fro  with  sweet  gratulations  borne  from  flower  to  flower !  All 
motion — all  happiness  ;  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  great  earth 
filled  with  life  and  love. 

"  Ernesta,"  said  her  sister,  "  art  thou  still  faithless  ?     Does  not 

47 


370  ELIZA  L.    SPROAT. 

this  blessed  morning  teach  thee  that  there  is  no  one  tone  in  earth 
or  heaven  so  worthy  to  rule  as  Love  ?" 

"Touch  the  lute  once  more,"  said  Ernesta;  "only  try  once 
more." 

Again  those  sweet  strains  rose  in  the  morning  air,  and  again  to 
the  listening  ear  of  Ernesta  rose  that  faint  clear  echo -tone,  so 
strange,  so  pure,  so  far  surpassing  music  ever  heard  before  by 
mortal  ear,  that  her  raptured  sense  could  scarcely  endure  the 
excess  of  melody. 

But  Mira's  ears  were  filled  with  the  music  of  the  heart,  and  she 
could  not  hear  these  higher  seraph  strains. 

"Now,  Mira,"  said  Ernesta,  "look  around,  and  tell  me  truly 
what  thou  seest." 

"  I  see  a  beautiful,  happy  world,  full  of  rich  sunlight  and  flowers, 
and  thronged  with  good,  loving  fairies  roaming  here  and  there, 
tending  the  sickening  plants  and  supporting  the  delicate  flower- 
buds  ;  helping  the  young  birds  in  their  flight,  and  teaching  all 
created  things  to  live  and  to  love.  And  what  sees  my  sister 
Ernesta?" 

"  I  see,  between  heaven  and  earth,  God's  holy  cherubim  ascend 
ing  and  descending;  searching  out  the  weary  fainting  spirits 
throughout  the  world,  and  bearing  to  them  balm  from  Paradise. 
I  see  them  rising  with  the  prayers  of  the  afflicted,  and  returning 
with  sweet  answers  fresh  from  Heaven.  And  sometimes  I  see  a 
newly  perfected,  enfranchised  soul,  borne  rejoicing  by  the  angels 
to  the  Throne,  to  dwell  for  ever  in  the  presence  of  the  Fountain  of 
Love  transcendent.  But,  Mira,  look  up,  and  tell  me  what  you 
see." 

"When  I  look  up,  I  see  nothing,  because  of  the  dazzling 
sunlight."  • 

"  Ah !  but  through  the  sunlight  I  can  see  the  stars !  the  clear 
stars,  that  ever  shine  and  never  weary.  And  hark  !  From  high, 
above  the  stars,  floats  down  the  prancing  echo-tone.  'Tis  the  voice 
of  the  angels  with  their  harps — they  answer  my  heaven-yearning 
lute  !  'Tis  the  great  master-tone  which  rules  the  universe — the 
music  of  the  soul !" 


MARY   SPENSER   PEASE. 


MRS.  PEASE  is  the  wife  of  the  engraver  of  that  name,  and  a  resident 
of  Philadelphia.  She  has  published  in  the  magazines  and  annuals,  within 
the  last  two  or  three  years,  some  very  beautiful  poems  and  stories,  which 
have  attracted  attention,  and  which  show  her  to  be  capable  of  taking  a 
high  position  as  a  writer.  The  extract  which  follows  is  from  "  The  Cap 
tives,"  a  story  that  appeared  in  the  "  Snow  Flake"  for  1850. 


THE  WITCH-HAZEL. 

EARLY  in  the  afternoon  of  a  warm  June  day,  in  the  year  17 — , 
a  solitary  horseman  was  riding  leisurely  along  the  rough  road  lead 
ing  to  Norwood  from  the  north. 

Both  horse  and  rider  seemed  decidedly  to  belong  to  the  "  upper 
class" — for  the  animal  was  sleek  and  well-conditioned,  seeming 
altogether  as  fine  and  spirited  a  piece  of  horseflesh  as  could  well 
have  been  found ;  while  the  man — young,  well-formed,  and  hand 
some,  with  eyes  as  dark  as  the  blackest  thunder-cloud,  and  looking 
as  though  their  flash  might  be  very  much  like  that  cloud's  lightning 
— had  altogether  that  indescribable  air  of  grace  and  ease  about  him 
that  comes  only  to  the  travelled  and  highly  cultured. 

As  the  young  man  proceeded  thus  lazily  on,  buried  in  a  pleasing 
revery,  a  slight  rustling  noise  caused  him  to  look  around.  A  dozen 
dark  faces,  fierce  with  paint  and  scowling  eyes,  glaring  on  him,  met 
his  startled  gaze.  Still  he  would  have  felt  no  other  emotion  than 
surprise,  at  seeing  so  many  around  him  and  so  suddenly,  had  he 

(371) 


372  MARY   SPENSER  PEASE. 

not  found  himself,  before  he  was  aware  of  their  intent,  firmly  and 
securely  bound  to  his  horse  with  strong  ropes  of  twisted  bark. 
Resistance  was  vain.  He  therefore  quietly  allowed  himself  to  be 
led  to  the  Indian  encampment,  concealed  in  the  heart  of  the  old 
forest,  and  very  shortly  he  found  himself  arraigned  before  the  grim 
tribunal  of  the  Indian  chief,  as  a  spy.  With  the  quiet  simplicity 
of  truth,  he  denied  the  charge,  stating  that  he  was  an  Englishman 
—a  friend  to  the  red  man ;  travelling  solely  for  his  own  pleasure, 
gratifying  his  love  of  the  beautiful,  in  studying  the  wild  and  pictu 
resque  scenery  of  America,  as  well  as  his  love  of  novelty  in  the 
men  and  manners  of  the  new  country. 

The  chief,  who  spoke  English  very  tolerably,  listened  gravely  to 
the  young  man's  words,  and  at  the  conclusion,  wisely  shook  his 
head,  and  scowling  until  the  bright  vermilion  stripes  over  each  eye 
met  in  one  bloody  line,  abruptly  said :  "  Pale-face  cannot  deceive 
Pontiac.  You  see  before  you  that  great  warrior.  Pontiac  likes 
the  English  pale-face  not  at  all ;  for  has  he  not  found  the  pale-face 
tongue  ever  fair  and  false  ?  Where  are  the  lands  of  our  fathers  ? 
Did  they  not  reach  from  the  ocean  beyond  the  big  river  of  the 
Mississippi  ?  Pontiac's  tribe  very  great.  His  chiefs  have  ever 
been  renowned  in  council  and  in  war.  Were  not  our  braves  as 
numerous  as  the  leaves  of  the  forest  ?  Were  not  peace  and  plenty 
ours  until  the  white  man  came  among  us  ?  Pale-face  have  smooth 
tongue  and  sharp  sword." 

"  You  may  have  received  many  wrongs  from  some  of  my  coun 
trymen,  but  others  there  are  who  regret  those  wrongs,  and  none 
more  than  myself.  I  would  see  my  red  brothers  of  the  forest 
receive  always  justice  and  mercy  from  the  invaders  of  their  soil." 

"  White  brother's  tongue  very  soft.  Indian  eyes  wide  awake  ; 
Indian  eyes  never  deceive.  White  brother  come  as  friend  ; — why 
does  white  brother  ride  on  enemy's  horse  ?  Major  Gladwin  a  snake 
in  the  grass — Pontiac  hate  him." 

The  Indian  concluded  his  sentence  with  one  of  his  peculiar 
scowls,  his  small  black  eyes  glistening  like  burning  coals  under  the 
frowning  paint.  The  prisoner  started.  A  choking  and  chilling 
sensation  of  dread  crept  through  his  veins ;  at  a  glance  he  saw  why 


MARY   SPENSER  PEASE.  373 

he,  alone  as  he  was,  had  been  taken  captive.  The  horse  had 
belonged  to  that  celebrated  major,  his  friend,  until,  on  account  of 
his  sagacity,  and  capacity  of  endurance,  Gladwin  had  presented  the 
animal  to  him.  Until  now  during  the  short  peace  with  the  English 
and  the  numerous  tribes  who  owned  Pontiac  as  their  leader,  the 
young  man  had  travelled  much  through  the  interior  of  New  York 
and  the  New  England  States,  and  had  ever  been  treated  with  the 
greatest  respect  and  kindness  by  the  Indians.  But  the  times  were 
again  becoming  troublous.  Several  outrages,  both  on  the  part  of 
the  English  and  the  Indians,  had  reached  him,  and  rumours  of  war 
were  afloat.  Still  had  he  continued  to  journey  fearlessly  on,  with 
the  hope  of  youth  before  him,  with  no  particular  object  in  view, 
save  that  of  gratifying  his  thirst  for  the  beautiful,  in  looking  upon 
nature  in  this  her  new  phase- — her  sublime  old  forest — her  ocean 
lakes — her  towering  mountains  and  giant  waterfalls. 

He  had  now  full  leisure  to  contemplate  the  sublimity  of  an 
American  forest,  in  all  the  grandeur  of  its  antiquity ;  and  as  the 
shadows  among  those  venerable  old  trees  began  to  lengthen  and 
deepen,  and  as  night  crept  softly  down  through  that  heaven-high 
canopy  of  leaves,  the  heart  of  the  young  man  beat  thick  within 
him,  as  much  in  awe  of  the  solemn  tale  whispered  to  him  by  that 
dim  old  forest,  as  in  fear  of  the  fierce  savages.  As  those  shadows 
grew  more  and  more  black,  the  flickering  fire-light  grew  brighter, 
and  the  strange-looking  Indians,  in  their  fantastic  dress  and 
unchristian  paint,  as  they  flitted  back  and  forth  between  him  and 
the  gleaming  tongues  of  forked  light,  began  to  assume  shapes  weird 
and  mysterious.  The  Indian  encampment  became  a  magic  dream. 
The  Indians  were  demons  and  gnomes,  practising  their  unlawful 
rites. 

A  light  whisper  in  his  ear  awoke  him  to  the  consciousness  that 
he  had  been  sleeping.  The  silence  of  the  grave  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  Indian's  rude  mirth.  The  full  moon  overhead  showed 
the  time  to  be  past  midnight ;  its  soft  light  revealed  the  lovely  face 
of  an  Indian  maiden  bending  low  over  him. 

With  his  habitual  instinct  for  the  beautiful,  Clarence  had  watched 
the  lithe  forms  and  free  graceful  motions  of  the  young  Indian 


374  MARY   SPENSER   PEASE. 

girls  ;  for  Indian  maidens  before  they  become  wives,  and  are  com 
pelled  to  hard  labour  in  field  and  tent,  are  generally  as  delicate  in 
form  and  beautiful  in  face  as  their  civilized  sisters.  Their  beauty 
is  in  fact  often  more  striking  and  symmetrical. 

A  face  more  full  of  heaven's  beauty  than  the  one  now  kneeling 
over  him,  the  young  man  had  scarcely  seen ;  and  as  she  knelt,  low, 
soft  Indian  accents  sank  into  his  ear  so  sweet  and  dreamlike,  that 
he  almost  fancied  he  still  slept. 

"  Would  the  young  Antelope  love  to  be  free  ?  Liberty  is  sweet. 
Shall  the  Indian  maiden  loosen  the  cords  of  her  pale-face  brother  ? 
Our  braves  think  the  dark-eyed  Antelope  an  enemy — " 

"  Thy  braves  mistake  me — " 

"  Hist !  Tomahawk  sharp.  English  scalp  bring  much  gold  in 
the  French  Canada.  White  brother's  hair  fine  and  soft — too  pretty 
to  hang  up  scalp  by — " 

"  Thy  chiefs  would  not  dare — " 

"  Hist !  Red  man  dare  anything.  Red  man  sleeps  now.  Red 
man  ears  very  long.  Witch-Hazel  put  poppy-juice  in  the  sentinel's 
drink  ;  he  sleep  very  sound.  Can  the  young  Antelope  run  ?" 

"  Swift  as  the  deer,  swift  as  the  lightning  that  follows  thy 
Manitou's  dread  voice." 

"  Good !  When  the  dark-eyed  Antelope  is  far  over  the  moun 
tain,  let  him  thank  the  Witch-Hazel  for  his  liberty." 

"  The  Witch-Hazel  shall  have  beads  and  feathers,  and  fine  silk," 
said  the  young  man,  as  he  felt  his  bonds  loosened. 

"  Let  the  young  Antelope  turn  his  dark  eyes  to  the  moon.  The 
Great  Spirit  speed  him,  and  in  a  few  hours  he  will  come  to  pale-face 
lodge." 

The  "young  Antelope"  did  not  wait  for  a  second  bidding,  but 
pressing  the  little  brown  hand  of  his  beautiful  friend,  he  noiselessly 
and  fleetly  sped  on  in  the  direction  named. 

The  dawn  of  the  day  found  him  far  from  the  pretty  Witch-Hazel, 
and  still  hastening  on  in  the  ragged,  tangled  road. 

The  soft,  gurgling  voice  of  an  unseen  Undine  called  pleasantly 
to  him  from  the  low  meadow  beyond ;  and  being  unable  to  resist 
the  sweet,  pleading  sound,  and  feeling  himself  at  a  safe  distance 


MAKY  SPENSER  PEASE.  375 

from  his  scalping  friends,  he  wandered  into  the  meadow,  and  sitting 
down  beside  the  clear,  cold  stream,  he  first  slaked  his  thirst,  and 
withdrawing  his  hoots  he  dipped  one  foot,  then  the  other,  into  the 
refreshing  water; — then  he  laved  his  whole  person,  the  merry, 
laughing  sprites,  meantime,  splashing  and  dashing  him  with  the 
white  spray  from  over  the  great  rocks,  down  which  the  glittering 
waters  foamed  and  danced. 

A  most  plentiful  breakfast  had  he  there  from  the  sweet,  wild 
strawberries,  which  grew  around  him  in  the  utmost  luxuriance,  upon 
that  fertile  meadow-land. 

The  wood-robin,  the  wren,  and  the  blue-bird,  sang  for  him  their 
sweetest  songs  while  he  tarried  among  them.  Feeling  himself  fully 
rested,  at  length  he  sought,  with  a  new  life,  the  road  again,  and 
proceeded  on  toward  the  settlement. 


THE  SISTERS. 

Just  as  the  "dark-eyed  Antelope"  had  come  within  hearing  of 
the  village  noises — a  welcome  sound  to  his  heart — such  as  the 
barking  of  dogs,  the  ploughboy's  loud  "gee,  whoa,"  the  merry, 
ringing  voice  of  children  at  play, — just  as  he  reached  the  well- 
known  "Devil's  Rock,"  after  passing  old  "Haystack," — that  ven 
erable  mountain-hill,  rising  up  grim  and  dark  at  his  right  hand,  he 
was  startled  with  the  sudden  step  of  a  deer  as  it  bounded  lightly 
out  from  the  woods  into  the  road.  But  the  deer  proved  to  be  a 
two-footed  dear — and  two  pretty  and  nimble  little  feet  they  were — 
and,  as  they  sped  on,  from  the  same  path  in  the  thick  greenwood, 
out  popped  another  dear  little  maiden  in  fleet  pursuit  of  the  first. 
A  hasty  and  casual  glance  was  all  the  little  fairies,  or  whatever  they 
were,  vouchsafed  the  traveller.  He  watched  them  in  their  airy 
course  until  a  bend  in  the  road  hid  them  from  his  view.  Their  sil 
very  laugh,  still  sounding  in  his  ear,  reminded  him  of  all  the  wild 
and  beautiful  things  he  had  ever  read  in  fairy-lore,  or  thought  in 
his  own  bright  imaginings.  With  the  superstition  of  those  early 
times,  any  one  might  have  been  justifiable  in  fancying  the  flying 


376  MARY    SPENSER    PEASE. 

maidens  connected  with  those  mysterious  little  beings,  the  fairies — 
perhaps  pet  daughters  of  the  Fay-Queen  herself — for  they  were  as 
slightly  and  delicately  fashioned  as  the  lily-bell,  and,  like  the  lily, 
their  dress  was  purest  white.  Garlands  of  holly  and  woodland 
honeysuckle  wreathed  their  floating  hair  and  slender  waists. 

The  young  man  quickened  his  pace,  and  as  he  turned  the  wooded 
point,  he  once  more  caught  sight  of  the  fugitives,  and  also  of  the 
pretty  village  beyond.  The  two  young  girls  were  now  walking, 
with  each  an  arm  around  the  other's  waist — as  it  is  the  fashion  with 
maidens  when  they  have  no  stronger  arm  to  encircle  them. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  more  rapid  strides  of  the  traveller 
brought  him  close  to  the  side  of  the  two.  The  simplicity  of  those 
early  times  rendered  the  ceremony  of  an  introduction  as  useless, 
as  it  in  reality  should  be,  and  the  young  people  soon  found  them 
selves  in  the  heart  of  a  spirited  conversation. 

The  traveller  discovered  the  pretty  maidens  to  be  sisters,  and 
daughters  of  the  first  landed  proprietor  of  the  village,  and  that 
their  names  were  Annie  and  Irene  Norwood. 

In  return  for  their  artless  and  confidential  conversation,  the 
stranger  entertained  them  with  his  adventure  among  the  Indians — 
at  which  they  duly  shuddered,  congratulating  him  on  his  escape — 
and  also  with  many  other  marvels  he  had  encountered  during  his 
travels.  As  they  found  themselves  at  the  door  of  a  "well-to-do-" 
looking  mansion,  Annie  Norwood  gaily  remarked,  "You  have 
delighted  us  with  your  vivid  and  graphic  descriptions,  sir  stranger, 
but  you  have  not  yet  told  us  by  what  name  we  shall  introduce  our 
new  friend  to  our  dear  parents." 

"  Forgive  my  seeming  want  of  frankness,  but  I  could  hardly  find 
an  opportunity  of  insinuating  my  name,  especially  before  it  was 
asked  of  me." 

"Ah!"  laughingly  said  Annie,  "that  undoubtedly  is  meant  to 
correct  us  for  our  glibness  of  tongue,  in  revealing  unasked,  not 
only  our  names,  but  all  that  concerns  us,  or  ours,  nearly  as  far 
back  as  the  Norman  conquest,  for  we  can  date  our  ancestors  back 
quite  to  that  period." 


MARY    SPENSER    PEASE.  377 

"  Hush,  Nannie,  that  sounds  too  much  like  bragging,"  interrupted 
Irene,  "  and  you  do  not  give  the  stranger  any  opportunity— 

"  Nay,  sister,"  said  the  other  playfully,  "it  is  yourself  now  that 
is  preventing  the  desired  revelation." 

"  Hist,  sister  Nan—" 

The  young  man  fixed  his  midnight  eyes  on  the  two,  wondering 
in  his  heart  which  was  the  most  beautiful — and  in  his  marvel  he 
forgot  to  satisfy  the  natural  curiosity  of  the  sisters  as  to  who  he 
was,  until  Nannie  exclaimed  with  an  arch  naivete  that  well  became 
her  dimpled  face : 

"  Will  you  not  walk  in,  and  rest  and  refresh  yourself,  Mr. ; 

my  mother  will  be  in  the  highest  degree  gratified  to  entertain  so 
distinguished  a  guest,  Mr. " 

"Norwood,"  quietly  said  the  stranger. 

"Norwood !"  ejaculated  both  of  the  sisters. 

Upon  comparing  notes,  the  family  found  the  stranger  to  be  a  son 
of  the  eldest  of  the  four  brothers  Norwood — the  one  who  did  not 
"come  over"  in  person; — perhaps  preferring  to  wait  and  send  his 
present  son  as  substitute. 

This  elder  branch  of  the  family  had  a  title,  and  young  Norwood, 
being  a  second  son,  might  or  might  not  become  a  baronet. 

A  refreshing  dinner,  a  stroll  in  the  garden  and  down  in  the 
meadow,  to  the  brook-side  with  the  bright  sisters — Norwood  being 
yet  undecided  as  to  which  was  the  most  beautiful — a  daintily  cooked 
and  bountiful  supper,  completed  the  first  day  of  him  whom  the 
Witch-Hazel  had  fantastically  named  the  "dark-eyed  Antelope." 
And  now  evening  set  in ;  and  a  merrier  or  happier  evening  could 
not  well  have  been  conceived  than  the  one  enjoyed  by  the  Nor 
woods.  The  gay  Annie  initiated  her  handsome  cousin  into  the 
mystery  of  "  peas  porridge  hot."  And  the  old  hall  rung  again 
with  the  clapping  of  the  little  white  hands  of  "Nannie,"  and  the 
more  manly  ones  of  young  Norwood.  While  the  gentle,  quiet  Irene 
sang  old  ballads  for  him,  in  her  sweet  tender  voice.  Occasionally 
the  clear  rich  voice  of  "Nan"  joined  her  sister's  in  a  harmonious 
duet. 

Bed-time  came  at  length,  and  to  the  new-found  cousin  was  as- 

48 


378  MARY  SPENSER  PEASE. 

signed  the  "best  room,"  whose  linen-spread  bed  vied  in  whiteness 
with  the  winter's  snow.  The  sisters  had  taken  care  to  fill  vases 
with  the  choicest  flowers  the  garden  could  boast,  and  the  room  was 
fragrant  with  the  damask  rose,  the  sweetbrier  and  mignonette. 

Through  his  dreams  all  night,  floated  visions  of  two  most  lovely, 
joyous  beings.  Occasionally  a  dark,  nut-brown  face,  of  exquisite 
beauty,  bent  lowly  over  him ;  while,  with  the  musical  voices  of  the 
sisters — melting  in  sweet  cadences  with  his  sleep — mingled  the 
lowest  of  soft  Indian  accents,  whispering  wild  lullabies  to  his  spirit. 


SUSAN  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


Miss  COOPER  is  a  native  and  resident  of  Cooperstown,  New  York,  and 
a  daughter  of  the  great  American  novelist.  Her  only  publication,  "  Ru 
ral  Hours,"  a  splendid  octavo  issued  by  Putnam  in  1850,  gave  her  at  once 
a  high  rank  among  our  female  authors.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a  journal, 
running  through  one  entire  year,  and  giving  an  account  of  the  most  nota 
ble  sights  and  sounds  of  country  life.  Miss  Cooper  has  an  observant  eye, 
and  a  happy  faculty  of  making  her  descriptions  interesting  by  selecting 
the  right  objects,  instead  of  the  too  common  method  of  extravagant 
embellishment.  She  never  gets  into  ecstasies,  and  sees  nothing  which 
anybody  else  might  not  see  who  walked  through  the  same  fields  after 
her.  Her  work  accordingly  contains  an  admirable  portraiture  of  Ameri 
can  out-door  life,  just  as  it  is,  with  no  colouring  but  that  which  every 
object  necessarily  receives  in  passing  through  a  contemplative  and  culti 
vated  mind. 

SPIDERS. 

UPON  one  of  these  violets  we  found  a  handsome  coloured  spider, 
one  of  the  kind  that  live  on  flowers  and  take  their  colour  from 
them  ;  but  this  was  unusually  large.  Its  body  was  of  the  size  of 
a  well-grown  pea,  and  of  a  bright  lemon  colour  ;  its  legs  were  also 
yellow,  and  altogether  it  was  one  of  the  most  showy-coloured 
spiders  we  have  seen  in  a  long  time.  Scarlet  or  red  ones  still 
larger,  are  found,  however,  near  New  York.  But,  in  their  gayest 
aspect,  these  creatures  are  repulsive.  It  gives  one  a  chilling  idea 
of  the  gloomy  solitude  of  a  prison,  when  we  remember  that  spiders 
have  actually  been  petted  by  men  shut  out  from  better  companion- 

(379) 


380  SUSAN    FENI  MORE    COOPER. 

ship.  They  are  a  very  common  insect  with  us,  and  on  that  account 
more  annoying  than  any  other  that  is  found  here.  Some  of  them, 
with  great  black  bodies,  are  of  a  formidable  size.  These  haunt 
cellars,  barns,  and  churches,  and  appear  occasionally  in  inhabited 
rooms.  There  is  a  black  spider  of  this  kind,  with  a  body  said 
to  be  an  inch  long,  and  legs  double  that  length,  found  in  the  Palace 
of  Hampton  Court,  in  England,  which,  it  will  be  remembered, 
belonged  to  Cardinal  Wolsey,  and  these  great  creatures  are  called 
"  Cardinals"  there,  being  considered  by  some  people  as  peculiar  to 
that  building.  A  huge  spider,  by-the-bye,  with  her  intricate  web 
and  snares,  would  form  no  bad  emblem  of  a  courtier  and  diplo 
matist,  of  the  stamp  of  Cardinal  Wolsey.  He  certainly  took  "  hold 
with  his  hands,  in  kings'  palaces,"  and  did  his  share  of  mischief 
there. 

Few  people  like  spiders.  No  doubt  these  insects  must  have  their 
merits  and  their  uses,  since  none  of  God's  creatures  are  made  in 
vain ;  all  living  things  are  endowed  with  instincts  more  or  less 
admirable ;  but  the  spider's  plotting,  creeping  ways,  and  a  sort  of 
wicked  expression  about  him,  lead  one  to  dislike  him  as  a  near 
neighbour.  In  a  battle  between  a  spider  and  a  fly,  one  always 
sides  with  the  fly,  and  yet  of  the  two,  the  last  is  certainly  the  most 
troublesome  insect  to  man.  But  the  fly  is  frank  and  free  in  all  his 
doings ;  he  seeks  his  food  openly,  and  he  pursues  his  pastimes 
openly ;  suspicions  of  others  or  covert  designs  against  them  are 
quite  unknown  to  him,  and  there  is  something  almost  confiding  in 
the  way  in  which  he  sails  around  you,  when  a  single  stroke  of  your 
hand  might  destroy  him.  The  spider,  on  the  contrary,  lives  by 
snares  and  plots ;  he  is  at  the  same  time  very  designing  and  very 
suspicious,  both  cowardly  and  fierce ;  he  always  moves  stealthily, 
as  though  among  enemies,  retreating  before  the  least  appearance 
of  danger,  solitary  and  morose,  holding  no  communion  with  his 
fellows.  His  whole  appearance  corresponds  with  this  character, 
and  it  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  while  the  fly  is  more  mis 
chievous  to  us  than  the  spider,  we  yet  look  upon  the  first  with  more 
favour  than  the  last ;  for  it  is  a  natural  impulse  of  the  human 
heart  to  prefer  that  which  is  open  and  confiding  to  that  which  is 


SUSAN    FENIMORE    COOPER.  381 

wily  and  suspicious,  even  in  the  brute  creation.  The  cunning  and 
designing  man  himself  will,  at  times,  find  a  feeling  of  respect  and 
regard  for  the  guileless  and  generous  stealing  over  him,  his  heart, 
as  it  were,  giving  the  lie  to  his  life. 

Some  two  or  three  centuries  since,  when  people  came  to  this 
continent  from  the  Old  World  in  search  of  gold,  oddly  enough,  it 
was  considered  a  good  sign  of  success  when  they  met  with  spiders  ! 
It  would  be  difficult  to  say  why  they  cherished  this  fancy ;  but 
according  to  that  old  worthy,  Hakluyt,  when  Martin  Frobisher 
and  his  party  landed  on  Cumberland  Island,  in  quest  of  gold,  their 
expectations  were  much  increased  by  finding  there  numbers  of 
spiders,  "which,  as  many  affirm,  are  signs  of  great  store  of 
gold." 


HUMMING-BIRDS. 

HUMMING-BIRDS  are  particularly  partial  to  the  evening  hours. 
One  is  sure  to  find  them  now  toward  sunset,  fluttering  about  their 
favourite  plants  ;  often  there  are  several  together  among  the  flow 
ers  of  the  same  bush,  betraying  themselves,  though  unseen,  by  the 
trembling  of  the  leaves  and  blossoms.  They  are  extremely  fond 
of  the  Missouri  currant — of  all  the  early  flowers,  it  is  the  greatest 
favourite  with  them ;  they  are  fond  of  the  lilacs  also,  but  do  not 
care  much  for  the  syringa ;  to  the  columbine  they  are  partial,  to 
the  bee  larkspur  also,  with  the  wild  bergamot  or  Oswego  tea,  the 
speckled  jewels,  scarlet  trumpet-flower,  red  clover,  honeysuckle, 
and  the  lychnis  tribe.  There  is  something  in  the  form  of  these 
tube-shape  blossoms,  whether  small  or  great,  which  suits  their  long, 
slender  bills,  and  possibly,  for  the  same  reason,  the  bees  cannot 
find  such  easy  access  to  the  honey,  and  leave  more  in  these  than 
in  the  open  flowers.  To  the  lily  the  humming-bird  pays  only  a 
passing  compliment,  and  seems  to  prefer  the  great  tiger-lily  to  the 
other  varieties ;  the  rose  he  seldom  visits ;  he  will  leave  these 
stately  blossoms  any  day  for  a  head  of  the  common  red  clover,  in 


332  SUSAN  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

which  he  especially  delights.  Often  of  a  summer's  evening  have 
we  watched  the  humming-birds  flitting  about  the  meadows,  passing 
from  one  tuft  of  clover  to  another,  then  resting  a  moment  on  a 
tall  spear  of  timothy  grass,  then  off  again  to  fresh  clover,  scarcely 
touching  the  other  flowers,  and  continuing  frequently  in  the  same 
field  until  the  very  latest  twilight. 

Mr.  Tupper,  in  his  paper  on  "  Beauty,"  pays  a  pretty  compli 
ment  to  the  humming-bird.     Personifying  Beauty,  he  says,  she 

"Fluttereth  into  the  tulip  with  the  humming-bird." 

But,  although  these  little  creatures  are  with  us  during  the  tulip 
season,  it  may  be  doubted  if  they  feed  on  these  gaudy  blossoms. 
On  first  reading  the  passage,  this  association  struck  us  as  one  with 
which  we  were  not  familiar ;  had  it  been  the  trumpet-flower,  nothing 
would  have  been  more  natural,  for  these  dainty  birds  are  for  ever 
fluttering  about  the  noble  scarlet  blossoms  of  that  plant,  as  we  all 
know,  but  the  tulip  did  not  seem  quite  in  place  in  this  connexion. 
Anxious  to  know  whether  we  had  deceived  ourselves,  we  have  now 
watched  the  humming-birds  for  several  seasons,  and,  as  yet,  have 
never  seen  one  in  a  tulip,  while  we  have  often  observed  them  pass 
these  for  other  flowers.  Possibly  this  may  have  been  accidental, 
or  other  varieties  of  the  humming-bird  may  have  a  different  taste 
from  our  own,  and  one  cannot  positively  assert  that  this  little 
creature  never  feeds  on  the  tulip,  without  more  general  examina 
tion.  But  there  is  something  in  the  upright  position  of  that  flower 
which,  added  to  its  size,  leads  one  to  believe  that  it  must  be  an 
inconvenient  blossom  for  the  humming-bird,  who  generally  seems 
to  prefer  nodding  or  drooping  flowers,  if  they  are  at  all  large, 
always  feeding  on  the  wing  as  he  does,  and  never  alighting,  like 
butterflies  and  bees,  on  the  petals.  Altogether,  we  are  inclined  to 
believe  that  if  the  distinguished  author  of  Proverbial  Philosophy 
had  been  intimate  with  our  little  neighbour,  he  would  have  placed 
him  in  some  other  native  plant,  and  not  in  the  Asiatic  tulip,  to 
which  he  seems  rather  indifferent.  The  point  is  a  very  trifling  one, 
no  doubt,  and  it  is  extremely  bold,  to  find  fault  with  our  betters  ; 
but  in  the  first  place,  we  are  busying  ourselves  wholly  with  trifles 


SUSAN   FENIMORE   COOPER.  383 

just  now.  and  then  the  great  work  in  question  has  been  a  source 
of  so  much  pleasure  and  advantage  to  half  the  world,  that  no  one 
heeds  the  misplaced  tulip,  unless  it  be  some  rustic  bird-fancier.  By 
supposing  the  flower  of  the  tulip-tree  to  be  meant,  the  question 
would  be  entirely  settled  to  the  satisfaction  of  author,  reader,  and 
humming-bird  also,  who  is  very  partial  to  those  handsome  blossoms 
of  his  native  woods. 

It  is  often  supposed  that  our  little  friend  seeks  only  the  most  fra 
grant  flowers ;  the  blossoms  on  the  Western  Prairies,  those  of  Wis 
consin  at  least,  and  probably  others  also,  are  said  to  have  but  little 
perfume,  and  it  is  observed  that  the  humming-bird  is  a  stranger 
there,  albeit  those  wilds  are  a  perfect  sea  of  flowers  during  the 
spring  and  summer  months.  But  the  amount  of  honey  in  a  plant  has 
nothing  to  do  with  its  perfume,  for  we  daily  see  the  humming-birds 
neglecting  the  rose  and  the  white  lily,  while  many  of  their  most 
favourite  flowers,  such  as  the  scarlet  honeysuckle,  the  columbine, 
the  lychnis  tribe,  the  trumpet  flower,  and  speckled  jewels,  have  no 
perfume  at  all.  Other  pet  blossoms  of  theirs,  however,  are  very 
fragrant,  as  the  highly-scented  Missouri  currant,  for  instance,  and 
the  red  clover,  but  their  object  seems  to  be  quite  independent  of 
this  particular  quality  in  a  plant. 

The  fancy  these  little  creatures  have  for  perching  on  a  dead  twig 
is  very  marked ;  you  seldom  see  them  alight  elsewhere,  and  the 
fact  that  a  leafless  branch  projects  from  a  bush,  seems  enough  to 
invite  them  to  rest ;  it  was  but  yesterday  we  saw  two  males  sitting 
upon  the  same  dead  branch  of  a  honeysuckle  beneath  the  window. 
And  last  summer,  there  chanced  to  be  a  little  dead  twig,  at  the 
highest  point  of  a  locust-tree,  in  sight  from  the  house,  which  was  a 
favourite  perching  spot  of  theirs  for  some  weeks ;  possibly  it  was 
the  same  bird,  or  the  same  pair,  who  frequented  it,  but  scarcely  a 
day  passed  without  a  tiny  little  creature  of  the  tribe  being  fre 
quently  seen  there.  Perhaps  there  may  have  been  a  nest  close  at 
hand,  but  they  build  so  cunningly,  making  their  nests  look  so  much 
like  a  common  bunch  of  moss  or  lichen,  that  they  are  seldom  dis 
covered,  although  they  often  build  about  gardens,  and  usually  at 
no  great  height ;  we  have  known  a  nest  found  in  a  lilac-bush,  and 


384  SUSAN  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

sometimes  they  are  even  satisfied  with  a  tall  coarse  weed ;  in  the 
woods,  they  are  said  to  prefer  a  white  oak  sapling,  seldom  building, 
however,  more  than  ten  feet  from  the  ground. 

Though  so  diminutive,  they  are  bold  and  fearless,  making  very 
good  battle  when  necessary,  and  going  about  generally  in  a  very 
careless,  confident  way.  They  fly  into  houses  more  frequently 
than  any  other  bird,  sometimes  attracted  by  plants  or  flowers 
within,  often  apparently  by  accident,  or  for  the  purpose  of  explor 
ing.  The  country  people  have  a  saying  that  when  a  humming-bird 
flies  in  at  a  window  he  brings  a  love  message  for  some  one  in  the 
house ;  a  pretty  fancy,  certainly,  for  Cupid  himself  could  not  have 
desired  a  daintier  avant  courier.  Unfortunately,  this  trick  of  fly 
ing  in  at  the  windows  is  often  a  very  serious  and  fatal  one  to  the 
poor  little  creatures  themselves,  whatever  felicity  it  may  bring  to 
the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  the  neighbourhood ;  for  they  usually 
quiver  about  against  the  ceiling  until  quite  stunned  and  exhausted, 
and  unless  they  are  caught  and  set  at  liberty,  soon  destroy  them 
selves  in  this  way.  We  have  repeatedly  known  them  found  dead 
in  rooms  little  used,  that  had  been  opened  to  air,  and  which  they 
had  entered  unperceived. 


WEEDS. 

THE  word  weed  varies  much  with  circumstances ;  at  times,  we 
even  apply  it  to  the  beautiful  flower  or  the  useful  herb.  A  plant 
may  be  a  weed,  because  it  is  noxious,  or  fetid,  or  unsightly,  or 
troublesome,  but  it  is  rare  indeed  that  all  these  faults  are  united  in 
one  individual  of  the  vegetable  race.  Often  the  unsightly,  or  fetid, 
or  even  the  poisonous  plant,  is  useful,  or  it  may  be  interesting  from 
some  peculiarity ;  and  on  the  other  hand,  many  others,  troublesome 
from  their  numbers,  bear  pleasing  flowers,  taken  singly.  Upon 
the  whole,  it  is  not  so  much  a  natural  defect  which  marks  the  weed, 
as  a  certain  impertinent,  intrusive  character  in  these  plants ;  a 
want  of  modesty,  a  habit  of  showing  themselves  forward  upon 


SUSANFENIMORECOOPER.  385 

ground  where  they  are  not  needed,  rooting  themselves  in  soil  in 
tended  for  better  things,  for  plants  more  useful,  more  fragrant,  or 
more  beautiful.  Thus  the  corn-cockle  bears  a  fine  flower,  not 
unlike  the  mullein-pink  of  the  garden,  but  then  it  springs  up  among 
the  precious  wheat,  taking  the  place  of  the  grain,  and  it  is  a  weed ; 
the  flower  of  the  thistle  is  handsome  in  itself,  but  it  is  useless,  and 
it  pushes  forward  in  throngs  by  the  wayside  until  we  are  weary 
of  seeing  it,  and  everybody  makes  war  upon  it ;  the  common  St. 
John's  wort,  again,  has  a  pretty  yellow  blossom,  and  it  has  its  uses 
also  as  a  simple,  but  it  is  injurious  to  the  cattle,  and  yet  it  is  so 
obstinately  tenacious  of  a  place  among  the  grasses,  that  it  is  found 
in  every  meadow,  and  we  quarrel  with  it  as  a  weed. 

These  noxious  plants  have  come  unbidden  to  us,  with  the  grains 
and  grasses  of  the  Old  World,  the  evil  with  the  good,  as  usual  in 
this  world  of  probation — the  wheat  and  tares  together.  The  useful 
plants  produce  a  tenfold  blessing  upon  the  labour  of  man,  but  the 
weed  is  also  there,  ever  accompanying  his  steps,  to  teach  him  a 
lesson  of  humility.  Certain  plants  of  this  nature— the  dock, 
thistle,  nettle,  &c.,  &c. — are  known  to  attach  themselves  especially 
to  the  path  of  man  ;  in  widely  different  soils  and  climates,  they  are 
still  found  at  his  door.  Patient  care  and  toil  can  alone  keep  the 
evil  within  bounds,  and  it  seems  doubtful  whether  it  lies  within  the 
reach  of  human  means  entirely  to  remove  from  the  face  of  the 
earth  one  single  plant  of  this  peculiar  nature,  much  less  all  their 
varieties.  Has  any  one,  even  of  the  most  noxious  sorts,  ever  been 
utterly  destroyed  ?  Agriculture,  with  all  the  pride  and  power  of 
science  now  at  her  command,  has  apparently  accomplished  but 
little  in  this  way.  Egypt  and  China  are  said  to  be  countries  in 
which  weeds  are  comparatively  rare ;  both  regions  have  long  been 
in  a  high  state  of  cultivation,  filled  to  overflowing  with  a  hungry 
population,  which  neglects  scarce  a  rood  of  the  soil,  and  yet  even 
in  those  lands,  even  upon  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  where  the  crops 
succeed  each  other  without  any  interval  throughout  the  whole  year, 
leaving  no  time  for  weeds  to  extend  themselves ;  even  there,  these 
noxious  plants  are  not  unknown,  and  the  moment  the  soil  is  aban 
doned,  only  for  a  season,  they  return  with  renewed  vigour. 

49 


386  SUSAN    FENTMORE   COOPEK. 

In  this  new  country,  with  a  fresh  soil,  and  a  thinner  population, 
we  have  not  only  weeds  innumerable,  but  we  observe,  also,  that 
briers  and  brambles  seem  to  acquire  double  strength  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  of  man ;  we  meet  them  in  the  primitive  forest,  here  and 
there,  but  they  line  our  roads  and  fences,  and  the  woods  are  no 
sooner  felled  to  make  ready  for  cultivation,  than  they  spring  up 
in  profusion,  the  first  natural  produce  of  the  soil.  But  in  this 
world  of  mercy,  the  just  curse  is  ever  graciously  tempered  with  a 
blessing ;  many  a  grateful  fruit,  and  some  of  our  most  delightful 
flowers,  grow  among  the  thorns  and  briars,  their  fragrance  and 
excellence  reminding  man  of  the  sweets  as  well  as  the  toils  of  his 
task.  The  sweetbriar,  more  especially,  with  its  simple  flower 
and  delightful  fragrance,  unknown  in  the  wilderness,  but  moving 
onward  by  the  side  of  the  ploughman,  would  seem,  of  all  others, 
the  husbandman's  blossom. 


ELIZABETH   WETHERELL. 


IT  is  now  less  than  a  year  since  the  "Wide,  Wide  World,"  a  novel  in 
two  volumes,  was  sent  forth  to  try  its  fortunes.  The  title-page  bore  upon 
its  face  a  name  unknown  to  the  public,  except  as  the  author  of  a  single 
magazine  article.  No  one  could  read  the  volumes  just  named  without  a 
desire  to  know  something  of  the  author.  The  inquiry  among  the  reading 
public  became  general,  "  Who  is  Elizabeth  Wetherell  ?" — but  it  has  resulted 
so  far  in  no  disclosure  beyond  the  fact  that  she  is  the  author  of  the  "Wide, 
Wide  World," — and  nothing  more.  In  other  words,  the  authorship  of  these 
volumes  is  a  secret,  and  likely  to  be  so  kept  for  some  time,  as  long,  per 
haps,  as  that  of  "Jane  Eyre"  and  "Shirley." 

The  "biography"  of  the  lady,  therefore,  must  needs  be  very  brief.  The 
only  other  events  of  her  life  that  I  know  are,  that  she  has  recently  contri 
buted  a  very  ingenious  and  original  article  to  one  of  the  leading  annuals, 
and  that  she  is  about  to — but,  maybe,  that  would  be  telling. 

The  "  Wide,  Wide  World,"  with  some  minor  faults,  and  among  them, 
that  of  a  title  savouring  of  affectation,  is  one.  of  the  most  original  and 
beautiful  works  of  fiction  of  which  American  literature  can  boast.  It  is 
the  only  professed  novel  in  which  real  religion,  at  least  as  understood 
by  evangelical  Christians,  is  exhibited  with  truth.  We  know  not  how  it 
could  be  possible  for  any  one  to  read  the  story  of  "  Little  Ellen  Mont 
gomery"  (which  ought  to  have  been  the  title  of  the  book),  without  being 
made  both  wiser  and  better  by  the  perusal ;  and  we  have  yet  to  hear  of  the 
first  person,  young  or  old,  that  has  commenced  the  story  without  finishing 
it.  No  living  writer  has  such  power  to  open  the  fountains  of  tears,  or  to 
warm  the  heart  with  thoughts  and  instances  of  goodness. 

The  author's  descriptions  and  narrations  have  the  particularity  and  the 
life-like  verisimilitude  of  De  Foe,  while  her  delineations  of  character  are 
so  minutely  individual  as  to  make  one  believe  them  taken  from  real  life. 

(387) 


ELIZABETH   WETHERELL. 


LITTLE  ELLEN  AND  THE  SHOPMAN. 

"MAMMA!"  exclaimed  Ellen,  suddenly  starting  up,  "a  bright 
thought  has  just  come  into  my  head  !  I'll  do  it  for  you,  mamma  !" 

"Do  what?" 

"  I'll  get  the  merino  and  things  for  you,  mamma.  You  needn't 
smile, — I  will,  indeed,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"My  dear  Ellen,"  said  her  mother,  "I  don't  doubt  you  would, 
if  good  will  only  were  wanting ;  but  a  great  deal  of  skill  and  expe 
rience  is  necessary  for  a  shopper,  and  what  would  you  do  without 
either?" 

"But  see,  mamma,"  pursued  Ellen  eagerly,  "I'll  tell  you  how 
I'll  manage,  and  I  know  I  can  manage  very  well.  You  tell  me 
exactly  what  coloured  merino  you  want,  and  give  me  a  little  piece 
to  show  me  how  fine  it  should  be,  and  tell  me  what  price  you  wish 
to  give,  and  then  I'll  go  to  the  store  and  ask  them  to  show  me  dif 
ferent  pieces,  you  know,  and  if  I  see  any  I  think  you  would  like, 
I'll  ask  them  to  give  me  a  little  bit  of  it  to  show  you ;  and  then  I'll 
bring  it  home,  and  if  you  like  it,  you  can  give  me  the  money,  and 
tell  me  how  many  yards  you  want,  and  I  can  go  back  to  the  store 
and  get  it.  Why  can't  I,  mamma  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  could ;  but,  my  dear  child,  I  am  afraid  you  wouldn't 
like  the  business." 

"  Yes,  I  should ;  indeed,  mamma,  I  should  like  it  dearly  if  I  could 
help  you  so.  Will  you  let  me  try,  mamma  ?" 

"  I  don't  like,  my  child,  to  venture  you  alone  on  such  an  errand, 
among  crowds  of  people ;  I  should  be  uneasy  about  you." 

"  Dear  mamma,  what  would  the  crowds  of  people  do  to  me  ?  I 
am  not  a  bit  afraid.  You  know,  mamma,  I  have  often  taken  walks 
alone, — that's  nothing  new ;  and  what  harm  should  come  to  me 
while  I  am  in  the  store  ?  You  needn't  be  the  least  uneasy  about  me ; 
— may  I  go  ?" 

Mrs.  Montgomery  smiled,  but  was  silent. 

"May  I  go,  mamma?"  repeated  Ellen.  "Let  me  go  at  least 
and  try  what  I  can  do.  What  do  you  say,  mamma  ?" 


ELIZABETH    WETHERELL.  389 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,  my  daughter,  but  I  am  in  difficulty 
on  either  hand.  I  will  let  you  go  and  see  what  you  can  do.  It 
would  be  a  great  relief  to  me  to  get  this  merino  by  any  means." 

"Then  shall  I  go  right  away,  mamma?" 

"  As  well  now  as  ever.     You  are  not  afraid  of  the  wind  ?" 

"I  should  think  not,"  said  Ellen;  and  away  she  scampered  up 
stairs  to  get  ready.  With  eager  haste  she  dressed  herself;  then 
with  great  care  and  particularity  took  her  mother's  instructions  as 
to  the  article  wanted ;  and  finally  set  out,  sensible  that  a  great 
trust  was  reposed  in  her,  and  feeling  busy  and  important  accord 
ingly.  But  at  the  very  bottom  of  Ellen's  heart  there  was  a  little 
secret  doubtfulness  respecting  her  undertaking.  She  hardly  knew 
it  was  there,  but  then  she  couldn't  tell  what  it  was  that  made  her 
fingers  so  inclined  to  be  tremulous  while  she  was  dressing,  and  that 
made  her  heart  beat  quicker  than  it  ought,  or  than  was  pleasant, 
and  one  of  her  cheeks  so  much  hotter  than  the  other.  However, 
she  set  forth  upon  her  errand  with  a  very  brisk  step,  which  she 
kept  up  till  on  turning  a  corner  she  came  in  sight  of  the  place  she 
was  going  to.  Without  thinking  much  about  it,  Ellen  had  directed 
her  steps  to  St.  Clair  &  Fleury's.  It  was  one  of  the  largest  and 
best  stores  in  the  city,  and  the  one  where  she  knew  her  mother 
generally  made  her  purchases ;  and  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  it 
might  not  be  the  best  for  her  purpose  on  this  occasion.  But  her 
steps  slackened  as  soon  as  she  came  in  sight  of  it,  and  continued 
to  slacken  as  she  drew  nearer,  and  she  went  up  the  broad  flight  of 
marble  steps  in  front  of  the  store  very  slowly  indeed,  though  they 
were  exceedingly  low  and  easy.  Pleasure  was  not  certainly  the 
uppermost  feeling  in  her  mind  now ;  yet  she  never  thought  of  turn 
ing  back.  She  knew  that  if  she  could  succeed  in  the  object  of  her 
mission  her  mother  would  be  relieved  from  some  anxiety ;  that  was 
enough ;  she  was  bent  on  accomplishing  it. 

Timidly  she  entered  the  large  hall  of  entrance.  It  was  full  of 
people,  and  the  buzz  of  business  was  heard  on  all  sides.  Ellen  had 
for  some  time  past  seldom  gone  a  shopping  with  her  mother,  and 
had  never  been  in  this  store  but  once  or  twice  before.  She  had 
not  the  remotest  idea  where,  or  in  what  apartment  of  the  building, 


390  ELIZABETH   WETHERELL. 

the  merino  counter  was  situated,  and  she  could  see  no  one  to  speak 
to.  She  stood  irresolute  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Everybody 
seemed  to  be  busily  engaged  with  somebody  else ;  and  whenever  an 
opening  on  one  side  or  another  appeared  to  promise  her  an  oppor 
tunity,  it  was  sure  to  be  filled  up  before  she  could  reach  it,  and, 
disappointed  and  abashed,  she  would  return  to  her  old  station  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor.  Clerks  frequently  passed  her,  crossing  the 
store  in  all  directions,  but  they  were  always  bustling  along  in  a 
great  hurry  of  business  ;  but  they  did  not  seem  to  notice  her  at  all, 
and  were  gone  before  poor  Ellen  could  get  her  mouth  open  to  speak 
to  them.  She  knew  well  enough  now,  poor  child,  what  it  was  that 
made  her  cheeks  burn  as  they  did,  and  her  heart  beat  as  if  it  would 
burst  its  bounds.  She  felt  confused,  and  almost  confounded,  by 
the  incessant  hum  of  voices,  and  moving  crowd  of  strange  people 
all  around  her,  while  her  little  figure  stood  alone  and  unnoticed  in 
the  midst  of  them ;  and  there  seemed  no  prospect  that  she  would 
be  able  to  gain  the  ear  or  the  eye  of  a  single  person.  Once  she 
determined  to  accost  a  man  she  saw  advancing  toward  her  from  a 
distance,  and  actually  made  up  to  him  for  the  purpose,  but  with  a 
hurried  bow,  and  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss!"  he  brushed  past. 
Ellen  almost  burst  into  tears.  She  longed  to  turn  and  run  out  of 
the  store,  but  a  faint  hope  remaining,  and  an  unwillingness  to  give 
up  her  undertaking,  kept  her  fast.  At  length  one  of  the  clerks  in 
the  desk  observed  her,  and  remarked  to  Mr.  St.  Clair,  who  stood 
by,  "  There  is  a  little  girl,  sir,  who  seems  to  be  looking  for  some 
thing,  or  waiting  for  somebody ;  she  has  been  standing  there  a 
good  while."  Mr.  St.  Clair,  upon  this,  advanced  to  poor  Ellen's 
relief. 

"  What  do  you  wish,  Miss  ?"  he  said. 

But  Ellen  had  been  so  long  preparing  sentences,  trying  to  utter 
them  and  failing  in  the  attempt,  that  now,  when  an  opportunity  to 
speak  and  be  heard  was  given  her,  the  power  of  speech  seemed  to 
be  gone. 

"Do  you  wish  anything,  Miss?"  inquired  Mr.  St.  Clair  again. 

"Mother  sent  me,"  stammered  Ellen, — "I  wish,  if  you  please, 
sir, — mamma  wished  me  to  look  at  merinoes,  sir,  if  you  please." 


ELIZABETH   WET  H  ERE  LL.  391 

"Is  your  mamma  in  the  store  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Ellen,  "she  is  ill  and  cannot  come  out,  and  she 
sent  me  to  look  at  merinoes  for  her,  if  you  please,  sir." 

"Here,  Saunders,"  said  Mr.  St.  Glair,  "show  this  young  lady 
the  merinoes." 

Mr.  Saunders  made  his  appearance  from  among  a  little  group 
of  clerks,  with  whom  he  had  been  indulging  in  a  few  jokes  by  way 
of  relief  from  the  tedium  of  business.  "  Come  this  way,"  he  said 
to  Ellen ;  and  sauntering  before  her  with  a  rather  dissatisfied  air, 
led  the  way  out  of  the  entrance  hall  into  another  and  much  larger 
apartment.  There  were  plenty  of  people  here,  too,  and  just  as 
busy  as  those  they  had  quitted.  Mr.  Saunders  having  brought 
Ellen  to  the  merino  counter,  placed  himself  behind  it ;  and  leaning 
over  it  and  fixing  his  eyes  carelessly  upon  her,  asked  what  she 
wanted  to  look  at.  His  tone  and  manner  struck  Ellen  most  un 
pleasantly,  and  made  her  again  wish  herself  out  of  the  store.  He 
was  a  tall,  lank  young  man,  with  a  quantity  of  fair  hair  combed 
down  on  each  side  of  his  face,  a  slovenly  exterior,  and  the  most 
disagreeable  pair  of  eyes,  Ellen  thought,  she  had  ever  beheld. 
She  could  not  bear  to  meet  them,  and  cast  down  her  own.  Their 
look  was  bold,  ill-bred,  and  ill-humoured ;  and  Ellen  felt,  though 
she  couldn't  have  told  why,  that  she  need  not  expect  either  kindness 
or  politeness  from  him. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  see,  little  one  ?"  inquired  this  gentleman, 
as  if  he  had  a  business  in  hand  he  would  like  to  be  rid  of.  Ellen 
heartily  wished  he  was  rid  of  it,  and  she,  too.  "  Merinoes,  if  you 
please,"  she  answered  without  looking  up. 

"  Well,  what  kind  of  merinoes  ?  Here  are  all  sorts  and  descrip 
tions  of  merinoes,  and  I  can't  pull  them  all  down,  you  know,  for 
you  to  look  at.  What  kind  do  you  want  ?" 

" I  don't  know  without  looking,"  said  Ellen,  "won't  you  please 
to  show  me  some?" 

He  tossed  down  several  pieces  upon  the  counter,  and  tumbled 
them  about  before  her. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "is  that  anything  like  what  you  want  ?  There's 


392  ELIZABETH  WETHERELL. 

a  pink  one, — and  there's  a  blue  one, — and  there's  a  green  one.  Is 
that  the  kind?" 

"This  is  the  kind,"  said  Ellen;  "but  this  isn't  the  colour  I 
want." 

"What  colour  do  you  want?" 

"  Something  dark,  if  you  please." 

"Well,  there,  that  green's  dark;  won't  that  do?  See,  that 
would  make  up  very  pretty  for  you." 

"No,"  said  Ellen,  "mamma  don't  like  green." 

"  Why  don't  she  come  and  choose  her  stuffs  herself,  then?  What 
colour  does  she  like  ?" 

"  Dark  blue,  or  dark  brown,  or  a  nice  gray,  would  do,"  said 
Ellen,  "if  it's  fine  enough." 

"'Dark  blue,'  or  'dark  brown,'  or  'a  nice  gray,'  eh!  Well, 
she's  pretty  easy  to  suit.  A  dark  blue  I've  showed  you  already, — 
what's  the  matter  with  that  ?" 

"It  isn't  dark  enough,"  said  Ellen. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  discontentedly,  pulling  down  another  piece, 
"  how'll  that  do?  That's  dark  enough." 

It  was  a  fine  and  beautiful  piece,  very  different  from  those  he 
had  showed  her  at  first.  Even  Ellen  could  see  that,  and  fumbling 
for  her  little  pattern  of  merino,  she  compared  it  with  the  piece. 
They  agreed  perfectly  as  to  fineness. 

"  What  is  the  price  of  this  ?"  she  asked,  with  trembling  hope  that 
she  was  going  to  be  rewarded  by  success  for  all  the  trouble  of  her 
enterprise. 

"Two  dollars  a  yard." 

Her  hopes  and  her  countenance  fell  together.  "  That's  too  high," 
she  said  with  a  sigh. 

"  Then  take  this  other  blue ;  come, — it's  a  great  deal  prettier 
than  that  dark  one,  and  not  so  dear ;  and  I  know  your  mother  will 
like  it  better." 

Ellen's  cheeks  were  tingling  and  her  heart  throbbing,  but  she 
couldn't  bear  to  give  up. 

"  Would  you  be  so  good  as  to  show  me  some  gray  ?" 

He  slowly  and  ill-humouredly  complied,  and  took  down  an  excel- 


ELIZABETH    WETHERELL.  393 

lent  piece  of  dark  gray,  which  Ellen  fell  in  love  with  at  once ;  but 
she  was  again  disappointed ;  it  was  fourteen  shillings. 

"Well,  if  you  won't  take  that,  take  something  else,"  said  the 
man ;  "  you  can't  have  everything  at  once ;  if  you  will  have  cheap 
goods,  of  course  you  can't  have  the  same  quality  that  you  like ;  but 
now,  here's  this  other  blue,  only  twelve  shillings,  and  I'll  let  you 
have  it  for  ten  if  you'll  take  it." 

"No,  it  is  too  light  and  too  coarse,"  said  Ellen,  "mamma  wouldn't 
like  it." 

"Let  me  see,"  said  he,  seizing  her  pattern  and  pretending  to 
compare  it;  "it's  quite  as  fine  as  this,  if  that's  all  you  want." 

"  Could  you,"  said  Ellen  timidly,  "give  me  a  little  bit  of  this 
gray  to  show  to  mamma?" 

"  0  no  !"  said  he  impatiently,  tossing  over  the  cloths  and  throw 
ing  Ellen's  pattern  on  the  floor  ;  "we  can't  cut  up  our  goods  ;  if 
people  don't  choose  to  buy  of  us  they  may  go  somewhere  else,  and 
if  you  cannot  decide  upon  anything  I  must  go  and  attend  to  those 
that  can.  I  can't  wait  here  all  day." 

"  What's  the  matter,  Saunders?"  said  one  of  his  brother  clerks, 
passing  him. 

"  Why  I've  been  here  this  half  hour  showing  cloths  to  a  child 
that  doesn't  know  merino  from  a  sheep's  back,"  said  he,  laughing. 
And  some  other  customers  coming  up  at  the  moment,  he  was  as 
good  as  his  word,  and  left  Ellen,  to  attend  to  them. 

Ellen  stood  a  moment  stock  still,  just  where  he  had  left  her, 
struggling  with  her  feelings  of  mortification ;  she  could  not  endure 
to  let  them  be  seen.  Her  face  was  on  fire ;  her  head  was  dizzy. 
She  could  not  stir  at  first,  and  in  spite  of  her  utmost  efforts  she 
could  not  command  back  one  or  two  rebel  tears  that  forced  their 
way  ;  she  lifted  her  hand  to  her  face  to  remove  them  as  quietly  as 
possible. 

"  What  is  all  this  about,  my  little  girl  ?"  said  a  strange  voice  at 
her  side. 

Ellen  started,  and  turned  her  face,  with  the  tears  but  half  wiped 
away,  toward  the  speaker.  It  was  an  old  gentleman,  an  odd  old 
gentleman,  too,  she  thought ;  one  she  certainly  would  have  been 

50 


394  ELIZA  BETH   WETHERELL. 

rather  shy  of,  if  she  had  seen  him  under  other  circumstances.  But 
though  his  face  was  odd,  it  looked  kindly  upon  her,  and  it  was  a 
kind  tone  of  voice  in  which  his  question  had  been  put  ;  so  he 
seemed  to  her  like  a  friend.  "  What  is  all  this?"  repeated  the  old 
gentleman.  Ellen  began  to  tell  what  it  was,  but  the  pride  which 
had  forbidden  her  to  weep  before  strangers  gave  way  at  one  touch 
of  sympathy,  and  she  poured  out  tears  much  faster  than  words  as 
she  related  her  story,  so  that  it  was  some  little  time  before  the  old 
gentleman  could  get  a  clear  notion  of  her  case.  He  waited  very 
patiently  till  she  had  finished ;  but  then  he  set  himself  in  good 
earnest  about  righting  the  wrong.  "  Hallo  !  you,  sir  !"  he  shouted, 
in  a  voice  that  made  everybody  look  round ;  "  you  merino  man  ! 
come  and  show  your  goods  :  why  aren't  you  at  your  post,  sir  ?" — 
as  Mr.  Saunders  came  up  with  an  altered  countenance — "  here's  a 
young  lady  you've  left  standing  unattended  to  I  don't  know  how 
long  ;  are  these  your  manners  ?" 

"  The  young  lady  did  not  wish  anything,  I  believe,  sir,"  returned 
Mr.  Saunders,  softly.  . 

"  You  know  better,  you  scoundrel,"  retorted  the  old  gentleman, 
who  was  in  a  great  passion ;  "I  saw  the  whole  matter  with  my 
own  eyes.  You  are  a  disgrace  to  the  store,  sir,  and  deserve  to  be 
sent  out  of  it,  which  you  are  like  enough  to  be." 

"  I  really  thought,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Saunders,  smoothly, — for  he 
knew  the  old  gentleman,  and  knew  very  well  he  was  a  person  that 
must  not  be  offended, — "  I  really  thought — I  was  not  aware,  sir, 
that  the  young  lady  had  any  occasion  for  my  services." 

"  Well,  show  your  wares,  sir,  and  hold  your  tongue.  Now,  my 
dear,  what  did  you  want  ?" 

"  I  wanted  a  little  bit  of  this  gray  merino,  sir,  to  show  to  mam 
ma  ; — I  couldn't  buy  it,  you  know,  sir,  until  I  found  out  whether 
she  would  like  it." 

"  Cut  a  piece,  sir,  without  any  words,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
Mr.  Saunders  obeyed. 

"  Did  you  like  this  best  ?"  pursued  the  old  gentleman. 

"  I  liked  this  dark  blue  very  much,  sir,  and  I  thought  mamma 
would ;  but  it's  too  high." 


ELIZABETH    WETHERELL.  395 

"  How  much  is  it  ?"  inquired  he. 

"Fourteen  shillings,"  replied  Mr.  Saunders. 

"  He  said  it  was  two  dollars,"  exclaimed  Ellen. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  the  crest-fallen  Mr.  Saunders,  "the  young 
lady  mistook  me ;  I  was  speaking  of  another  piece  when  I  said  two 
dollars." 

"  He  said  this  was  two  dollars,  and  the  gray  fourteen  shillings," 
said  Ellen. 

"  Is  the  gray  fourteen  shillings  ?"  inquired  the  old  gentleman. 

"I  think  not,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Saunders — "I  believe  not,  sir, 
— I  think  it's  only  twelve, — I'll  inquire,  if  you  please,  sir." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "I  know  it  was  only  twelve 
— I  know  your  tricks,  sir.  Cut  a  piece  off  the  blue.  Now,  my  dear, 
are  there  any  more  pieces  of  which  you  would  like  to  take  patterns, 
to  show  your  mother?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  overjoyed  Ellen;  "lam  sure  she  will  like 
one  of  these." 

"  Now,  shall  we  go,  then  ?" 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Ellen,  "I  should  like  to  have  my  bit 
of  merino  that  I  brought  from  home ;  mamma  wanted  me  to  bring 
it  back  again." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  That  gentleman  threw  it  on  the  floor." 

"Do  you  hear,  sir?"  said  the  old  gentleman;  "find  it  directly." 

Mr.  Saunders  found  and  delivered  it,  after  stooping  in  search  of 
it  till  he  was  very  red  in  the  face ;  and  he  was  left,  wishing  heartily 
that  he  had  some  safe  means  of  revenge,  and  obliged  to  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  none  was  within  his  reach,  and  that  he  must  stomach 
his  indignity  in  the  best  manner  he  could.  But  Ellen  and  her  pro 
tector  went  forth  most  joyously  together  from  the  store. 


CAROLINE  ORNE. 


MRS.  ORNE  has  published  chiefly  through  the  magazines,  in  which, 
during  the  last  twenty  years,  more  than  a  hundred  of  her  tales  have 
appeared.  These  would  make,  if  collected,  several  large  volumes.  Her 
writings  are  generally  of  a  practical  cast,  on  subjects  of  every-day  life, 
and  have  been  deservedly  popular. 

Her  early  childhood  was  passed  in  the  most  retired  part  of,  at  that  time, 
a  retired  country  town,  Georgetown,  Mass. 

Early  impressions  are  seldom  effaced,  and  the  first  six  years  of  her  life 
spent  amid  rural  scenes  gave  a  permanent  tone  and  colouring  to  her  mind. 
She  was  educated  to  love  birds  and  flowers,  and  the  children  of  the  family 
were  always  called  to  look  at  a  rainbow  as  an  object  worthy  of  peculiar 
admiration.  One  of  her  dearest  pleasures  was  to  watch,  with  her  sister, 
the  early  garden-plants,  when  they  first  broke  through  the  dark,  rich  soil. 
But  the  wild  flowers  which  grew  in  profusion  near  the  paternal  dwelling, 
yielded,  if  possible,  a  delight  still  more  vivid.  Among  these,  the  violets 
which  gemmed  the  green  and  sunny  slopes,  held  pre-eminence.  Birds 
were  still  more  fondly  cherished  than  flowers,  the  love  bestowed  on  them, 
like  themselves,  having  more  vitality.  A  number  of  orioles,  or,  as  they 
were  generally  called  in  that  vicinity,  golden  robins,  glancing  in  and  out 
of  the  cloud  of  snowy  or  rose-tinted  blooms,  which  covered  some  old  apple- 
tree,  was  a  treat  that  must  have  been  enjoyed  with  a  similar  zest,  to  be 
truly  appreciated. 

Nor  were  the  winter  evenings  without  their  pleasures,  though  books 
were  scarce,  and  newspapers  almost  unknown.  Her  maternal  grand 
mother,  who  was  a  member  of  the  family,  was  an  accomplished  story 
teller,  and  she  used  to  listen,  spell-bound,  to  the  wild  legends,  tales  of 
Indian  warfare,  or  the  trials  and  hardships  of  the  pioneer's  domestic  life, 
which  were  related  in  a  clear,  emphatic  manner,  that  gave  to  them  a  charm 
and  a  raciness,  which  could  never  have  been  imparted  to  a  written  story. 

(396) 


CAROLINE   ORNE.  397 

At  a  very  early  age  she  commenced  attempting  to  write  her  thoughts. 
She  recollects  a  manuscript  "  Picture  Book"  which  was  the  joint  produc 
tion  of  her  sister,  her  brother,  and  herself.  It  was  her  part  of  the  task 
to  compose  the  stories ;  her  sister's,  who,  for  one  so  young,  could  very 
neatly  execute  imitation  print,  to  transfer  them  to  the  book ;  and  her  bro 
ther's,  who,  only  a  short  time  previous,  had  attained  to  the  dignity  of 
jacket  and  trowsers,  to  illustrate  them  with  appropriate  pen-and-ink 
devices. 

These  stories  were  simple  and  unpretending,  though  she  was  often 
ambitious  to  press  into  her  service,  long,  sonorous  words.  The  way  she 
managed  this  was  unique.  When  in  a  writing  mood,  she  used  to  select  a 
number  of  words  which  she  considered  uncommonly  splendid,  and  each 
of  these  she  made  a  kind  of  nucleus  round  which  to  weave  her  thoughts, 
such  as  they  were.  Being  always  written  on  a  slate,  they  were  speedily 
effaced  to  make  room  for  more. 

The  reading  of  Pope's  poetical  works  formed  a  new  and  never-to-be- 
forgotten  era  of  her  life.  While  reading  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  the 
aerial  sylphs,  and  the  lovely,  mischievous  sprites,  which  form  its  light  and 
graceful  machinery,  seemed  constantly  hovering  round  her,  while  passages 
of  other  poems,  such  as  the  three  opening  lines  of  "Eloisa  to  Abelard," 

"In  these  deep  solitudes  and  awful  cells, 
Where  heavenly,  pensive  contemplation  dwells, 
And  ever-musing  melancholy  reigns," 

haunted  her  with  their  plaintive  melody,  as  if  chanted  by  spirit-voices 
close  to  her  ear. 

At  the  early  age  of  fifteen,  necessity  compelled  her  to  enter  upon  the 
practical  duties  of  life.  In  connexion  with  her  sister,  she  opened  a  pri 
vate  school  in  Salem,  Mass.,  in  the  mean  time  devoting  what  intervals  of 
leisure  she  could  obtain  in  pursuing  such  studies  as  would  better  qualify 
her  for  her  task.  Among  their  pupils  was  the  late  Mrs.  Judson,  whom, 
for  a  while,  they  subsequently  employed  as  an  assistant. 

The  second  tale  Mrs.  Orne  ever  attempted  to  write,  appeared  anony 
mously  in  the  "  Ladies'  Magazine,"  published  in  Boston,  and  edited  by 
Mrs.  Hale.  Subsequently  other  stories  from  her  pen  were  published  in 
different  periodicals,  all  of  them  anonymously.  A  very  encouraging  letter 
received  from  Isaac  C.  Pray,  in  consequence  of  a  story  which  she  sent  to 
the  "  Pearl  and  Galaxy,"  a  paper  of  which  he  was  one  of  the  editors,  sti 
mulated  her  to  devote  what  leisure  she  could  command  to  writing,  and 
from  that  time  her  stories  were  published  in  her  name. 

Mrs.  Orne's  maiden  name  was  Chaplin.  She  has  no  middle  name, 
though  it  is  often  printed  with  the  initial  "F."  This  mistake  arises  from 
there  being  a  Miss  Caroline  F.  Orne,  a  resident  of  Cambridgeport,  who 
has  many  years  written  for  publication,  though  most  of  her  articles  have 
been  in  verse. 

She  was  mostly  educated  by  her  mother,  and  when,  for  one  term,  as  a 


398  CAROLINE   ORNE. 

kind  of  finishing,  she,  with  fear  and  trembling,  on  account  of  her  supposed 
deficiencies,  entered  a  justly  celebrated  school,  she,  to  her  surprise,  found 
no  difficulty  in  ranking  with  the  first. 

The  late  Jeremiah  Chaplin,  D.  D.  (a  cousin  to  both  of  her  parents), 
who  was,  for  several  years,  President  of  Waterville  College,  corrected  the 
first  compositions  which  she  ever  wrote,  which  she  thought  worthy  of 
being  seen,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  pointed  out  their  beauties,  as  well 
as  defects,  had  a  lasting  and  salutary  influence. 

When  about  six  years  old,  her  father  removed  from  Rowley  to  Salem, 
Mass.,  where  she  resided,  with  a  few  temporary  exceptions,  till  she  was 
married.  Since  her  marriage,  except  the  first  four  years  at  Meredith- 
Bridge,  she  has  resided  at  Wolf  boro',  New  Hampshire. 

DOCTOR  PLUMLEY. 

THE  boy  who  had  been  sent  for  Dr.  Plumley  now  returned,  and 
with  a  giggle,  which  his  most  strenuous  efforts  could  not  suppress, 
told  us  that  the  Doctor  was  close  at  hand.  He  then  retreated  to 
a  part  of  the  room  where  his  mistress  could  not  have  an  eye  on 
him,  and  evidently  made  a  violent  effort  to  compose  the  muscles  of 
his  face.  When  the  Doctor's  footsteps  were  heard  in  the  entry, 
he  braced  his  whole  person  and  tightly  compressed  his  lips. 

Dr.  Plumley,  it  seems,  had  recently  invented  an  oil  for  the  hair, 
which  he  imagined  would  prove  exceedingly  efficacious  in  strength 
ening  the  roots,  and  prevent  it  from  falling  off.  As  time  had  begun 
to  thin  his  own  locks,  he  was  desirous  of  personally  testing  its  won 
derful  qualities.  Having  previously  settled  in  his  mind  the  impro 
bability  of  being  called  to  exert  his  medical  skill,  he  made  so 
copious  an  application  of  the  unguent  as  completely  to  saturate  his 
hair,  and  then  drew  on  a  flannel  cap  of  a  pyramidal  form  to  prevent 
the  too  speedy  escape  of  the  volatile  aromatics,  which  he  imagined 
would  strengthen,  while  the  oleaginous  part  mollified.  In  his  haste, 
all  this  escaped  his  memory,  and  when,  on  entering  the  room,  he 
removed  his  hat  in  his  usual  quick  and  smart  manner,  thereby 
revealing  his  singular  headgear,  and  made  a  brisk  bow  to  each  of 
us,  the  point  of  his  cap  nodding  in  unison,  his  appearance  was  so 
exquisitely  ludicrous  that  my  risibility  got  the  better  of  my  gravity, 
and  I  was  obliged  hastily  to  retreat  behind  Agnes.  In  the  mean 
time  I  stole  a  glance  at  the  poor  boy,  who  stood  convulsed  with 
suppressed  laughter,  the  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks. 


CAROLINE   ORNE.  3^3 

"  Oh,  dear  doctor,  how  glad  I  am  that  you've  come !"  said  my 
aunt;  "though  I  am  sorry  you've  got  the  headache,"  glancing  at 
his  flannel  cap. 

"I  understand,"  said  he,  without  noticing  her  remark,  "that 
you  have  elongated  the  ligaments  of  your  ankle  joint — that  is, 
sprained  your  ankle." 

"  Yes,  and  it  pains  me  so,  that  I  am  afraid  that  the  information 
will  get  into  it  afore  morning." 

"  As  it  never  got  into  your  head,  ma'am,  there  is  no  great  dan 
ger  of  its  getting  into  your  ankle,"  he  replied,  winking  at  Agnes 
and  me.  "Be  pleased,"  continued  he,  seeing  my  aunt  about  to 
speak,  while  he  at  the  same  time  waved  his  hand  in  what  he  consi 
dered  a  very  graceful  and  dignified  manner,  "  be  pleased,  ma'am, 
to  listen  to  a  few  observations  which  I  propose  to  make.  I  shall 
proceed  as  systematically  with  your  ankle,  ma'am,  as  if  I  were 
treating  a  fever.  I  shall,  however,  omit  the  emetic." 

"Well,  I  am  master  glad  o'  that,  for  I  took  some  tatramatic 
once,  and" 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  permit  me  to  proceed  without  interrup 
tion  with  my  observations, — I  was  speaking  of  a  fever.  Now,  in 
my  estimation,  to  speak  metaphorically,  a  fever  is  the  very  pink 
of  diseases,  and  I  had  rather  treat  it  than  any  other.  However,  a 
sprained  ankle  will  do  to  brighten  a  man's  science  in  lieu  of  a  bet 
ter  case.  In  the  first  place,  ma'am,  in  accordance  with  the  inva 
riable  rules  of  my  practice  in  all  similar  cases,  I  shall  apply  to  the 
part  injured,  a  plaster,  the  several  ingredients  of  which  are  all 
eminently  calorific,  and  which  in  more  simple  language  may  be 
called  a  heater." 

"  La,  doctor,  my  ankle  is  as  hot  as  fire  coals  now,  and  that  is 
what  makes  me  afraid  of  the  information." 

"  But,  ma'am,  though  it  were  ten  times  hotter  than  fire  coals,  I 
assure  you,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  latent  cold,  which  will  be 
brought  to  the  surface  by  means  of  this  calorific  plaster,  which  will 
evaporate  in  the  form  of  perspiration." 

"  Well,  doctor,  I  suppose  what  you  say  is  all  right,  but  you  do 
talk  so  figurey,  that  I  don't  understand  more  than  half  you  say. 


400  CAROLINE   ORNE. 

Now,  as  you  don't  pretend  to  doctor  according  to  the  rules  of  the 
reg'lar  faculty,  as  they  call  'em,  I  don't  see  the  need  of  your  being 
so  high  flown." 

"  I  tell  you,  ma'am,  there  is  a  certain  dignity  in  the  profession, 
which  ought  to  be  supported  by  a  suitable  selection  of  long,  sono 
rous  words.  But  your  interruption,  ma'am,  has  broken  the  conca 
tenation  of  my  ideas.  Pray,  Miss  Agnes,  do  you  recollect  what  I 
was  speaking  of?" 

"  Perspiration,  I  believe,  sir." 

"Ay,  ay — that  word  has  restored  the  concatenation.  When 
a  copious  perspiration  has  ensued,  a  reaction  will  be  necessary. 
To  effect  this  reaction,  I  shall  apply  what  I  call  a  refrigeratory 
plaster — in  other  words,  a  cooler.  I  shall,  in  the  next  place,  in 
order  to  impart  a  proper  pliancy  to  the  cords,  envelop  the  dis 
eased  part  of  the  limb  in  a  cloth  completely  saturated  in  a  limpid 
salve,  which  I  call  a  grand  mollification  salve,  but  which  you  may, 
if  you  please,  term  a  laxer — the  invention  of  which  caused  me  to 
grow  pale  by  the  midnight  lamp.  The  laxer  must  be  succeeded  by 
a  double  compound  astrictory,  which  you  will  better  understand  by 
the  appellation  of  bracer,  the  application  of  which  will  complete  the 
cure,  and  make  your  ankle  as  much  stronger  than  it  was  before  the 
accident  as  it  was  then  stronger  than  a  baby's." 


CAROLINE    MAY. 


Miss  MAY,  one  of  the  sweetest  of  our  female  poets,  has  written  also 
some  excellent  prose,  entitled  to  consideration,  besides  a  goodly  amount 
of  editorial  labour.  Her  largest  publication,  "The  American  Female 
Poets,"  in  1848,  contains,  in  the  biographical  and  critical  notices  prefixed 
to  the  several  extracts,  an  amount  of  original  matter,  sufficient  to  fill  a 
considerable  volume.  These  notices  are  written  with  much  ability,  and, 
together  with  the  selections,  they  show  a  sound  judgment,  a  highly  cul 
tivated  literary  taste,  and  great  freedom  and  command  of  language.  Miss 
May  has  also  edited  one  or  two  annuals,  and  a  volume  of  elegant  extracts, 
called  "  Treasured  Thoughts,"  which  has  been  quite  a  favourite.  An  essay 
on  "  Handel,"  which  we  have  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  in  manuscript, 
deserves  to  rank  among  the  very  best  specimens  of  biographical  criticism. 
A  single  introductory  paragraph  is  quoted.  The  other  extract  is  from  the 
"Female  Poets." 

Miss  May  is  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Edward  Harrison  May,  who  was 
for  many  years  pastor  of  one  of  the  Dutch  Reformed  Churches  of  New  York, 
and  who  is  at  present  Secretary  of  the  American  Seamen's  Friend  Society. 
Her  brother,  a  young  artist  of  fine  promise,  was  one  of  the  chief  designers 
and  painters  of  the  panorama  of  Pilgrim's  Progress,  which  has  been  so 
deservedly  popular.  Miss  May  is  a  resident  of  New  York. 

HANDEL. 

CARLYLE  truly  observes,  that  "  great  men,  taken  up  in  anyway, 
are  profitable  company.  We  cannot  look,  however  imperfectly, 
upon  a  great  man,  without  gaining  something  from  him.  He  is  the 

51 


402  CAROLINE    MAY. 

living  light-fountain  which  it  is  so  good  and  pleasant  to  be  near." 
Carlyle  was  thinking  of  his  heroes, — Odin,  Mahommed,  Dante, 
Shakspeare,  Cromwell, — when  he  said  this.  Whether  he  would 
place  Handel  among  his  worshipped  great  men,  matters  not ;  but 
that  he  would,  we  have  little  doubt,  for  has  he  not  in  his  own 
strange  eloquence  said,  "  Who  is  there,  that  in  logical  words  can 
express  the  effect  music  has  on  us  ?  A  kind  of  inarticulate  un 
fathomable  speech,  which  leads  us  to  the  edge  of  the  Infinite,  and 
lets  us  for  a  moment  gaze  into  that?"  Surely,  they  who  can 
silently  understand,  if  they  cannot  audibly  interpret,  this  unfathom 
able  speech, — who  have  been  led  with  wonder  and  admiration  to 
gaze  into  Infinity,  will  look  on  Handel  as  on  a  hero,  and  rank  his 
genius  side  by  side  with  that  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton.  But 
whatever  the  opinion  of  others  may  be,  we  have  always  found  his 
company  profitable.  Whether  listening  to  his  expressive  airs,  or 
reading  over  his  rich  full  choruses  (lamenting,  as  we  read,  that  a 
choir  of  voices  could  not  spring  at  once  from  our  grateful  and 
delighted  heart),  we  have  always  felt  that,  to  approach  Handel 
was  to  approach  a  living  fountain  of  heaven-born  harmony.  And 
to  be  near  such,  is  both  good  and  pleasant. 


LUCRETIA  AND  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

IT  would  be  wrong,  merely  for  the  sake  of  chronological  order, 
to  separate  these  sweet  sisters,  who,  though  not  twins  by  birth,  were 
twins  in  thought,  feeling,  loveliness,  and  purity.  We  will  sketch 
them  together,  therefore,  while  their  devoted  mother  and  excellent 
father  shall  stand  at  their  head. 

Mrs.  Davidson  was  a  daughter  of  Dr.  Burnet  Miller,  a  respect 
able  physician  in  the  city  of  New  York,  where  she  was  born  on  the 
27th  of  June,  1787.  Her  mother  was  early  left  a  widow,  and 
removed  to  Dutchess  county,  where,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  this 
daughter  was  married  to  Dr.  Davidson.  The  greater  part  of  her 
married  life  was  spent  at  Plattsburg  (on  Lake  Champlain),  where 


CAROLINE   MAY.  403 

all  her  children  were  born,  ten  in  number — eight  of  whom  passed 
before  her  into  heaven.  She  resided  in  Plattsburg  at  the  time  of 
the  battle,  August,  1814.  The  fearful  events  of  that  season,  and 
her  own  escapes  and  adventures,  have  been  narrated  by  both  Mrs. 
Davidson  and  Margaret,  in  a  fictitious  garb.  She  never  could 
speak  of  them  without  great  excitement ;  and  invariably  wept  at 
the  sound  of  martial  music.  An  intimate  friend  writing  of  her, 
says  —  "Mrs.  Davidson's  appearance  and  manner  when  talking 
enthusiastically,  as  she  always  did  on  a  favourite  subject,  could 
never  be  forgotten.  The  traces  of  early  beauty  were  still  evident 
in  her  large  dark  eyes  and  her  exquisite  complexion ;  but  the  great 
charm  of  her  countenance  was  in  its  mingled  expression  of  intelli 
gence  and  sensibility,  varying  not  unfrequently  from  deep  sadness 
to  a  playful  vivacity  of  which  you  would  not  at  first  suppose  her 
capable."  She  possessed  great  elasticity  of  spirit  and  vigour  of 
mind,  which  were  not  at  all  impaired  by  the  constant  pain  and 
suffering  she  endured.  During  the  last  few  years  of  her  life,  she 
resided  alternately  at  New  York,  Ballston,  and  Saratoga  Springs. 
At  the  latter  place  she  died,  on  the  27th  of  June,  1844.  She  had 
long  been  thought  a  victim  to  consumption,  but  the  fearful  and 
agonizing  disease  which  terminated  her  life  was  a  cancer  in  the 
face.  A  year  before  her  death,  a  volume,  entitled  "  Selections  from 
the  Writings  of  Mrs.  Margaret  M.  Davidson,"  was  published,  with 
a  short  preface  from  her  distinguished  friend,  Miss  Sedgwick.  Her 
poems,  however,  although  they  display  that  tenderness  of  feeling 
and  romantic  disposition  which  characterized  her  so  strongly,  are 
too  inferior  to  her  daughter's  to  be  quoted  with  any  advantage. 

Dr.  Davidson  was  a  man  of  extensive  reading,  and  possessed  a 
taste  for  natural  science.  His  moral  character,  however,  more  than 
his  intellectual,  renders  him  worthy  of  notice.  "  He  was  one  of 
the  most  guileless  and  pure-minded  men  I  ever  knew,"  writes  the 
friend  we  have  before  quoted.  "  He  was  entirely  unpretending  in 
his  manners,  and  always  exhibited  a  degree  of  affectionate  devoted- 
ness  to  his  wife,  unusual  and  touching.  His  piety  was  simple,  con 
fiding,  and  unobtrusive ;  and  his  conduct  in  every  situation  unre- 
proachable."  He  died  about  a  year  ago. 


404  CAROLINE    MAY. 

Such  were  the  parents  of  the  inspired  poet-children,  Lucretia  and 
Margaret  Davidson. 

Lucretia  Maria  was  born  on  the  27th  of  September,  1808,  and 
was  distinguished  almost  from  her  birth  by  an  extraordinary  deve 
lopment  of  the  imaginative  and  sensitive  faculties.  When  she  was 
four  years  old  she  went  to  the  Plattsburg  Academy,  and  was  taught 
to  read,  and  form  letters  in  sand,  after  the  Lancasterian  method. 
She  began  to  turn  her  infant  thoughts  into  measured  strains  before 
she  had  learned  to  write ;  and  devoting  herself  with  tireless  atten 
tion  to  her  studies  both  at  home  and  at  school,  she  soon  attained 
a  wonderful  amount  of  knowledge.  It  was  only  in  her  intel 
lectual  character  that  she  was  thus  premature.  In  her  inno 
cence,  simplicity,  playfulness,  and  modesty,  she  was  a  perfect  child. 
Her  conscientiousness  and  dutifulness  were  remarkably  prominent ; 
as  they  were  also  with  Margaret.  Her  health,  always  very 
feeble,  began  to  decline  in  1823,  when  she  was  taken  from  school, 
and  accompanied  her  mother  on  a  visit  to  some  relatives  in  Canada. 
While  there  she  finished  "Amir  Khan,"  her  longest  poem,  and 
began  a  prose  tale,  called  "  The  Recluse  of  the  Saranac."  It 
was  about  this  time  that  the  Hon.  Moss  Kent,  an  early  friend 
of  her  mother,  became  acquainted  with  Lucretia,  and  so  deeply 
interested  in  her  genius,  that  he  resolved,  if  he  could  persuade 
her  parents  to  resign  her  to  his  care,  to  afford  her  every  advan 
tage  for  improvement  that  the  country  could  afford.  At  his 
suggestion,  in  November,  1824,  she  was  placed  under  the  care  of 
Mrs.  Willard ;  in  whose  seminary  at  Troy  she  remained  during  the 
winter.  The  following  spring,  she  was  transferred  to  a  boarding 
school  at  Albany ;  but  while  there  her  health  gave  way,  and  she 
was  obliged  to  return  home  to  Plattsburg.  The  strength  of  affec 
tion,  and  the  skill  of  physicians,  failed,  however,  to  restore  her. 
The  hand  of  death  alone  gave  her  ease  ;  and  she  gently  fell  asleep 
one  morning  in  August,  1825  ;  exactly  one  month  before  her  seven 
teenth  birthday.  President  Morse,  of  the  American  Society  of 
Arts,  first  published  her  biography ;  and  soon  after,  a  delightful 
memoir  from  the  able  pen  of  Miss  Sedgwick  spread  the  name  of 
Lucretia  Davidson  far  and  wide. 


CAROLINE    MAY.  405 

Margaret  Miller  was  born  on  the  26th  of  March,  1823.  She 
was  therefore  but  two  years  and  a  half  old  when  Lucretia  died ;  an 
event  which  made  a  deep  impression  on  her.  Although  so  young, 
she  seemed  not  only  to  feel  her  loss,  but  to  understand  and  appre 
ciate  her  sister's  character  and  talents  ;  and  from  the  first  dawn 
ing  of  intellect  gave  evidence  that  she  possessed  the  same.  "  By 
the  time  she  was  six  years  old,"  says  her  mother,  "her  language 
assumed  an  elevated  tone ;  and  her  mind  seemed  filled  with  poetic 
imagery,  blended  with  veins  of  religious  thought."  The  sacred  writ 
ings  were  her  daily  study.  Devotional  feelings  seemed  interwoven 
with  her  very  existence.  A  longing  after  heaven,  that  her  spirit 
might  be  free  from  the  thraldom  of  earth,  was  as  natural  to  her,  as  a 
longing  for  a  holiday  to  be  let  loose  from  school  is  to  other  child 
ren.  Yet  she  enjoyed  most  fully  the  quiet  pleasures  that  sur 
rounded  her,  and  her  heart  was  always  swelling  with  love  and  gra 
titude.  Sometimes,  too,  the  consciousness  of  genius, — the  inward 
assurance  that  she  was  a  poet, — would  make  her  think  on  what 
might  be,  were  she  to  live ;  but  the  restless  thoughts  of  fame  were 
soon  lost  again,  in  happier,  calmer  hopes  of  an  abiding  heaven. 

Dear  child !  she  little  knew  that  so  soon  both  were  to  be  hers — 
"an  honoured  name"  on  earth,  and  "a  glorious  crown"  in  heaven. 
Like  all  true  poets,  she  had  a  keen  relish  for  the  beauties  of  nature, 
and  fed  upon  them  from  her  infancy.  Her  earliest  home  was  upon 
the  banks  of  the  Saranac,  commanding  a  fine  view  of  Lake  Cham- 
plain,  and  surrounded  by  the  most  romantic  and  picturesque 
scenery ;  but  wherever  she  resided,  she  found  something  to  admire 
and  love,  upon  the  earth  or  in  the  sky. 

Margaret  was  always  instructed  by  her  mother,  whose  poetical 
tastes  and  affectionate  disposition  made  her  capable  of  appreciat 
ing  and  sympathizing  with  the  warm  impulses  and  aspiring  thoughts 
of  her  sweet  pupil.  The  love  between  this  mother  and  daughter 
is  a  poem  of  itself.  No  one  can  read  the  memoir  of  Margaret,  by 
Washington  Irving,  without  feeling  the  heart,  if  not  the  eyes, 
overflow.  But  the  links  that  bound  them  to  each  other  on  earth 
were  soon  severed ; — for  when  she  was  but  fifteen  years  and  eight 
months  old,  this  gentle  girl  died  at  Ballston,  Saratoga  county,  in 


406  CAROLINE  MAY. 

November,  1838.  We  could  not  wish  that  she  should  have  stayed 
longer  on  earth,  an  exile  from  her  native  heaven ;  yet,  as  we  listen 
to  the  soaring  strains  of  her  young  genius,  and  are  borne  upward 
by  their  energy,  we  cannot  help  wondering  what  would  have  been 
its  thrilling  tones  and  lofty  flights,  had  life  unfolded  its  mysteries 
year  after  year  to  her  poet's  eye.  But  we  thank  God  she  was 
spared  the  sight  of  them ;  for  though  we  have  lost  the  songs,  she 
has  missed  the  sorrow  ' 


JULIA  C.  R.  DORR. 


MRS.  JULIA  CAROLINE  RIPLEY  DORR  was  born  at  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  February  13th,  1825.  Before  she  was  two  years  old,  her  mother 
died,  and  her  father  shortly  after  removed  to  New  York  city,  where  he 
was  engaged  in  mercantile  business  until  1830,  about  which  time  he 
relinquished  his  business  there,  and  removed  to  the  state  of  Vermont. 
She  was  married,  February  22d,  1847,  to  Seneca  M.  Dorr,  Esq.,  of 
Chatham  Four  Corners,  Columbia  county,  New  York,  at  which  place  she 
has  continued  to  reside  ever  since. 

She  is  the  only  child  of  William  S.  Ripley,  and  Zulma  Caroline  Tho 
mas.  Mr.  Ripley  is  a  native  of  Middlebury,  Vermont,  and  has  been 
extensively  engaged  as  commission  merchant,  both  in  Charleston  and  New 
York.  Miss  Thomas  was  the  daughter  of  Jean  Jacques  Thomas  and  Su 
sanna  De  Lacy.  They  were  natives  of  France,  and  resided,  after  their 
marriage,  in  the  island  of  St.  Domingo,  from  which  place  they  fled  to 
Charleston,  South  Carolina,  at  the  time  of  the  insurrection  of  the  slaves 
in  that  island. 

Mrs.  Dorr  commenced  writing  at  an  early  age,  and  has  written  much, 
both  in  poetry  and  prose.  Her  publications,  however,  did  not  commence 
until  1848.  Since  that  time,  a  large  number  of  her  poems  has  appeared 
in  the  different  magazines  and  annuals.  Her  first  attempt  at  prose,  the 
story  of  "  Isabel  Leslie,"  had  the  singular  success  of  gaining  one  of  the 
hundred  dollar  prizes  proposed  by  Sartain. 

This  success,  brilliant  certainly  for  a  first  attempt,  has  given  a  new 
direction,  as  well  as  a  new  impetus  to  her  talents,  and  she  already  takes 
a  higher  position  as  a  prose  writer,  than  that  previously  won  as  a  poet. 
The  extract  which  follows  is  from  "Hillside  Cottage/'  a  beautiful  story 
published  in  one  of  the  annuals  for  the  present  year. 

(407) 


408  JULIA  C.   R.   DORR. 


HILLSIDE  COTTAGE. 

THERE  was  no  spot  in  all  Elmwood  that  we  children  so  dearly 
loved  to  visit  as  Hillside  Cottage.  No  matter  where  our  wander 
ings  began — whether  we  started  for  the  meadow,  in  pursuit  of  the 
rich  strawberry — for  the  thick  woods,  where  the  wild  flowers 
bloomed  so  luxuriantly,  and  the  bright  scarlet  clusters  of  the  par 
tridge-berry,  contrasting  beautifully  with  its  dark  green  leaves, 
sprang  up  at  our  feet — for  the  brook,  to  gather  the  shining  pebbles, 
or  to  watch  the  speckled  trout,  as  they  darted  swiftly  through  the 
water — no  matter  where  our  wanderings  began,  it  was  a  strange 
thing  if  they  did  not  terminate  somewhere  about  the  sweet  wild 
place  where  Aunt  Mary  lived. 

Now,  prythee,  gentle  reader,  do  not  picture  to  your  "mind's 
eye"  a  stately  mansion  with  an  unpretending  name,  when  you  read 
of  Hillside  Cottage.  Neither  was  it  a  cottage  ornee,  with  piazzas, 
and  columns,  and  Venetian  blinds.  It  was  a  low-roofed  dwelling, 
and  its  walls  had  never  been  visited  by  a  single  touch  of  the  paint 
er's  brush :  but  the  wild  vines  had  sprung  up  around  it,  until  their 
interlacing  tendrils  formed  a  beautiful  network  nearly  all  over  the 
little  building ;  and  the  moss  upon  the  roof  had  been  gathering 
there  for  many  years,  growing  thicker  and  greener  after  the  snows 
of  each  succeeding  winter  had  rested  upon  it.  It  stood,  as  the  name 
given  it  by  the  villagers  indicated,  upon  the  hillside,  just  in  the 
edge  of  the  woods  that  nearly  covered  the  rounded  summit  of  the 
hill ;  a  little  rivulet  danced  along,  almost  beneath  the  very  win 
dows,  and  at  a  short  distance  below  fell  over  a  ledge  of  rocks, 
forming  a  small  but  beautiful  cascade,  then,  tired  of  its  gambols,  it 
flowed  onwards  as  demurely  as  if  it  had  never  leaped  gayly  in  the 
sunlight,  or  frolicked,  like  a  child  at  play,  with  every  flower  that 
bent  to  kiss  its  bright  waters.  We  thought  there  was  no  place 
where  the  birds  sang  half  so  sweetly,  or  where  the  air  was  so  laden 
with  fragrance ;  and  sure  am  I  there  was  no  place  where  we  were 
more  cordially  welcomed  than  in  Aunt  Mary's  cottage. 


JULIA   C.    R.    DORR.  409 

I  well  remember  Aunt  Mary's  first  arrival  in  Elmwood.  For 
two  or  three  weeks  it  had  been  rumoured  that  the  cottage  on  the 
hill  was  to  receive  a  new  tenant.  Some  slight  repairs  were  going 
on,  and  some  one  had  seen  a  wagon,  loaded  with  furniture,  unladen 
at  the  door.  This  was  enough  to  excite  village  curiosity;  and 
when  we  assembled  in  the  church,  the  next  Sabbath,  I  fear  that 
more  than  one  eye  wandered  from  the  pulpit  to  the  door,  to  catch 
the  first  glimpse  of  our  new  neighbour.  Just  as  our  old  pastor  was 
commencing  the  morning  service,  a  lady,  entirely  unattended,  came 
slowly  up  the  aisle,  and  entered  the  pew  designated  by  the  sexton. 
Her  tall  and  graceful  figure  was  robed  in  deepest  black,  and  it 
was  evident  that  grief,  rather  than  years,  had  dimmed  the  bright 
ness  of  her  eye,  and  driven  the  rich  colouring  of  youth  and  health 
from  her  cheek.  But  there  was  something  in  the  quiet,  subdued 
glance  of  those  large,  thoughtful  eyes,  in  the  intellect  that  seemed 
throned  upon  her  lofty  forehead,  and  in  the  sweet  and  tender 
expression  that  played  around  her  small  and  delicately  formed 
mouth,  that  more  than  compensated  for  the  absence  of  youthful 
bloom  and  freshness.  I  did  not  think  of  these  things  then ;  but, 
child  that  I  was,  after  one  glance  I  shrank  back  in  my  seat,  awe 
struck  and  abashed  by  the  dignity  of  her  bearing.  Yet  when  she 
rose  from  her  knees,  and  I  caught  another  glimpse  of  her  pale 
face,  my  little  heart  seemed  drawn  towards  her  by  some  powerful 
spell ;  and  after  service  was  concluded,  as  we  passed  down  the  aisle 
side  by  side,  I  timidly  placed  in  her  hand  a  wild  rose  I  had  gathered 
on  my  way  to  church.  She  took  it  with  a  smile,  and  in  a  sweet 
low  voice  thanked  me  for  the  simple  gift.  Our  homes  lay  in  the 
same  direction,  and  ere  we  reached  my  father's  gate  I  imagined 
myself  well  acquainted  with  Miss  Atherton. 

From  that  hour  my  visits  to  Hillside  Cottage  were  neither  "  few" 
nor  "far  between."  My  parents  laughed  at  my  enthusiastic  praises 
of  my  new  friend ;  but  they  soon  became  assured  that  they  were 
well  grounded :  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  answer,  "  Oh,  she 
has  only  gone  to  see  Aunt  Mary,"  was  the  most  satisfactory  one 
that  could  be  given  to  the  oft-repeated  query,  "  Where  in  the  world 
has  Jessie  gone  now?" 

52 


410  JULIA   C.    R.   DORR. 

She  lived  almost  the  life  of  a  recluse ;  seldom  mingling  with  the 
villagers,  save  in  the  services  of  the  sanctuary,  or  when,  like  a 
ministering  angel,  she  hovered  around  the  couch  of  the  dying. 
Formed  to  be  an  ornament  to  any  circle,  and  to  attract  admiration 
and  attention  wherever  she  moved,  she  yet  shrank  from  public 
notice,  and  was  rarely  seen,  except  by  those  who  sought  her  society 
in  her  own  little  cottage.  To  those  few  it  was  evident  that  her 
love  of  seclusion  was  rather  the  effect  of  some  deep  grief,  that  had 
in  early  life  cast  its  shadow  over  her  pathway,  than  the  constitu 
tional  tendency  of  her  mind.  Hers  was  a  character  singularly 
lovely  and  symmetrical.  With  a  mind  strong,  clear,  and  discrimi 
nating,  she  yet  possessed  all  those  finer  shades  of  fancy  and  feeling, 
all  that  confiding  tenderness,  all  those  womanly  sympathies,  and 
all  that  delicacy  and  refinement  of  thought  and  manner  which,  in 
the  opinion  of  many,  can  rarely  be  found  in  woman,  combined  with 
a  high  degree  of  talent.  Love  of  the  beautiful  and  sublime  was 
with  her  almost  a  passion,  and  conversing  with  her,  when  animated 
by  her  favourite  theme,  was  like  reading  a  page  of  rare  poetry,  or 
gazing  upon  a  series  of  paintings,  the  work  of  a  well-skilled  hand. 

Years  passed  on.  The  little  village  of  Elmwood  had  increased 
in  size,  if  not  in  comeliness :  the  old  church  had  given  place  to  one 
of  statelier  mien  and  prouder  vestments,  and  the  winding  lane,  with 
its  primroses  and  violets,  had  become  a  busy  street,  with  tall  rows 
of  brick  bordering  it  on  either  side.  But  still  the  cottage  on  the 
hill  remained  quiet  and  peaceful  as  ever,  undisturbed  by  the  changes 
that  were  at  work  beneath  it.  A  silver  thread  might  now  and  then 
be  traced  amid  the  abundant  raven  tresses  that  were  parted  on 
Aunt  Mary's  forehead ;  and  my  childish  curls  had  grown  darker, 
and  were  arranged  with  more  precision  than  of  yore.  Yet  still  the 
friendship  of  earlier  years  remained  unbroken,  and  a  week  seldom 
passed  without  finding  me  at  Hillside  Cottage.  My  visits  had  of 
late  been  more  frequent  than  ever,  for  the  time  was  drawing  near 
when  our  intimacy  must  be  interrupted.  I  was  soon  to  leave  my 
father's  roof,  for  a  new  home  in  a  far-off  clime,  and  to  exchange  the 
love  and  tenderness  that  had  ever  been  lavished  upon  me  there  for 
a  nearer  and  more  engrossing  attachment. 


JULIA  C.   R.    DORR.  411 

It  was  the  evening  before  my  bridal.  I  had  stolen  away  unper- 
ceived,  for  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  one  more  quiet  chat 
with  Aunt  Mary. 

"  I  scarcely  expected  you  to-night,  my  dear  Jessie,"  said  she,  as 
I  entered,  "  but  you  are  none  the  less  welcome.  Do  you  know  I  am 
very  selfish  to-night  ?  When  I  ought  to  be  rejoicing  in  your  happi 
ness,  my  heart  is  heavy,  because  I  feel  that  I  can  no  longer  be  to 
you  what  I  have  been,  chief  friend  and  confidant.  Oh !  I  shall 
indeed  miss  my  little  Jessie." 

"  You  will  always  be  to  me  just  what  you  have  been,  Aunt  Mary," 
I  replied,  and  tears  filled  my  eyes,  as  I  threw  myself  upon  a  low 
seat  at  her  feet.  "  You  must  not  think  that  because  I  am  a  wife, 
I  shall  love  my  old  friends  any  the  less  :  and  you  of  all  others,  you 
who  have  been  to  me  as  a  dear,  dear  elder  sister, — you  who  have 
instructed  and  counselled  me,  and  have  shared  all  my  thoughts  and 
feelings  since  I  was  a  little  child ;  oh !  do  you  think  any  one  can 
come  between  our  hearts  ?  We  may  not  meet  as  frequently  as  we 
have  done,  but  you  will  ever  find  me  just  the  same,  and  I  shall  tell 
you  all  my  thoughts,  and  all  my  cares  and  sorrows,  and  all  my 
joys  too,  just  as  I  always  have  done." 

"  No,  no,  Jessie,  say  not  so.  That  may  not  be.  You  may  love 
me  just  as  well,  but  you  will  love  another  more.  Your  heart  cannot 
be  open  to  me  as  it  has  been,  for  it  will  belong  to  another.  Its 
hopes,  its  fears,  its  joys,  its  sorrows,  its  cares,  its  love,  will  all  be  so 
intimately  blended  with  those  of  another,  that  they  cannot  be 
separated.  No  wife,  provided  the  relations  existing  between  her 
husband  and  herself  are  what  they  should  be,  can  be  to  any  other 
friend  exactly  what  she  was  before  her  marriage." 

"  Why,  Aunt  Mary  ! — you  surely  do  not  mean  to  say  that  a  wife 
should  never  have  any  confidential  friends?" 

"  The  history  of  woman,  dear  Jessie,  is  generally  simply  a  record 
of  the  workings  of  her  own  heart ;  in  ordinary  cases,  she  has  little 
else  to  consider.  '  The  world  of  affections  is  her  world,'  and  there 
finds  she  her  appropriate  sphere  of  action.  What  I  mean  to  say 
is, — not  that  a  wife  should  have  no  friend  save  her  husband, — but 
that,  if  the  hearts  of  the  twain  are  as  closely  linked  together  as  they 


412  JULIA  C.    R.    DORR. 

should  be,  if  they  always  beat  in  perfect  unison,  and  if  their  thoughts 
and  feelings  harmonize  as  they  ought  to  do,  it  will  be  difficult  for 
her  to  draw  aside  the  veil  from  her  own  heart,  and  lay  it  open  to 
the  gaze  of  any  other  being,  without,  in  some  degree,  betraying  the 
confidence  reposed  in  her  by  him  who  should  be  nearer  and  dearer 
than  all  the  world  beside.  The  heart  is  like  a  temple,  Jessie.  It 
has  its  outer  and  its  inner  court,  and  it  has  also  its  holy  of  holies. 
The  outer  court  is  full.  Common  acquaintances, — those  that  we  call 
friends,  merely  because  they  are  not  enemies, — are  gathered  there. 
The  inner  court  but  few  may  enter, — the  few  who  we  feel  love  us, 
and  to  whom  we  are  united  by  the  strong  bonds  of  sympathy ;  but 
the  sanctum  sanctorum,  the  holy  of  holies,  that  must  never  be  pro 
faned  by  alien  footsteps,  or  by  the  tread  of  any,  save  him  to  whom 
the  wife  hath  said,  '  Whither  thou  goest  I  will  go,  thy  people  shall 
be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God.'  " 


MARY  ELIZABETH  MORAGNE. 


MARY  ELIZABETH  MORAGNE  was  born  in  the  year  1815,  at  Oakwood, 
in  Abbeville  District,  South  Carolina.  At  this  retired  spot  she  spent  the 
earlier  years  of  a  quiet  and  uniform  life,  the  deep  seclusion  of  which 
served  to  foster  and  increase  a  naturally  contemplative  and  romantic  turn 
of  mind. 

Her  childhood  and  youth  were  characterized  by  an  ardent  devotion  to 
books ;  and,  though  she  received  the  benefit  of  some  competent  instruction, 
she  may  be  said  in  this  way  to  have  become  self-educated — having  acquired 
a  knowledge  of  some  of  the  sciences  and  of  the  French  language  mainly 
by  her  own  efforts.  Had  her  reading  been  less  varied,  or  had  she  come 
more  in  contact  with  the  world,  perhaps  very  different  would  have  been 
her  future  career  j  but  the  balance  of  her  mind  was  preserved  by  an 
inquisitive  search  after  truth,  and  her  habits  and  modes  of  thinking  were 
kept  free  from  the  conventional  rules  of  the  so-called  fashionable  life. 

In  1839,  soon  after  the  publication  of  her  first  effort  in  novel-writing, 
she  attached  herself  to  the  Presbyterian  church  at  Willington,  in  which 
she  had  been  brought  up,  under  the  care  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Waddel.  She 
experienced  at  the  same  time  a  change  of  views  in  regard  to  the  propriety 
of  that  branch  of  literature  which  she  had  adopted ;  and  finally,  after  a 
few  more  efforts,  some  of  which  were  never  suffered  to  come  before  the 
world,  she  yielded  to  her  particular  scruples  of  conscience,  and  has  ever 
since  resolutely  denied  herself  this  favourite  pursuit. 

In  1842,  Dr.  Waddel  having  been  removed  by  infirmity,  she  was  mar 
ried  to  his  successor,  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Davis,  and  removed  with  him  the 
following  year  to  Mount  Carmel,  a  situation  in  the  vicinity  of  the  same 
church,  where  she  has  since  resided. 

Miss  Moragne  is  descended,  on  the  paternal  side,  from  the  French 
Huguenots  who  sought  religious  freedom  in  this  country  in  1764.  That 

(413) 


414  MARY  ELIZABETH   MORAGNE. 

portion  of  the  colony  which  did  not  remain  in  Charleston  found  refuge  on 
the  banks  of  Little  River,  in  that  district,  where  they  formed  a  township 
after  the  manner  of  the  country  which  they  had  left.  Her  connexion 
with,  and  proximity  to  this  settlement,  gave  much  colouring  to  the  feel 
ings  and  pursuits  of  Miss  Moragne,  and  in  the  introduction  to  an  unfinished 
tale  once  contemplated  on  this  subject,  she  gives  a  brief  but  beautiful 
history  of  this  settlement,  from  the  unpublished  manuscript  of  which  an 
extract  is  made,  at  the  end  of  the  present  notice. 

Among  these  settlers  was  Pierre  Moragne,  the  grandfather  of  the  sub 
ject  of  the  present  notice,  who,  having  lost  his  wife  on  the  passage  round 
by  Plymouth,  returned  to  Charleston  from  New  Bordeaux,  and  married 
Cecille  Bayle,  a  beautiful  "compagnon-du-voyage."  As  his  letters  and 
journals  testify,  he  was  from  his  youth  addicted  to  literary  pursuits,  and 
though  the  wants  of  a  primitive  settlement  could  not  have  been  very 
favourable  to  such  inclinations,  he  is  remembered  and  spoken  of  as  a 
character  of  great  eccentricity,  on  account  of  having  devoted  the  latter 
years  of  his  life  to  the  entire  companionship  of  his  pen.  His  writings 
were  not  appreciated  by  his  immediate  descendants ;  and  of  the 
many  manuscripts  which  he  left,  prepared  for  publication,  only  a  few 
remain.  These  evince  considerable  elegance  of  diction,  great  orthodoxy 
of  sentiment,  and  much  fervent  piety.  The  youngest  of  his  four  sons, 
who  inherited  much  of  his  philosophic  and  eccentric  temperament,  was 
the  father  of  Miss  Moragne.  On  the  other  side,  the  parentage  is  respect 
able,  her  maternal  grandmother  claiming  descent  from  the  Randolphs  of 
Roanoke. 

"  The  British  Partisan/7  her  first  publication,  appeared,  as  a  prize  tale, 
in  the  "Augusta  Mirror/'  in  1838.  It  was  well  received,  adding  greatly 
to  the  extension  of  the  periodical,  besides  being  reprinted  in  book  form. 

In  1841,  appeared  the  "  Rencontre,"  a  short  tale,  embracing  revolu 
tionary  incidents.  Of  this  story,  Mr.  Thompson,  the  editor  of  the 
"  Augusta  Mirror/7  remarked  as  follows  : — "  The  '  Rencontre'  is  of  that 
class  of  literary  productions  which  we  prize  above  all  other  orders  of 
fiction.  Illustrative  as  it  is  of  our  own  history,  descriptive  of  our  own 
peculiar  scenery,  and  abounding  in  sound  reflections  and  truly  elevated 
sentiment,  we  hold  it  worth  volumes  of  the  mawkish  romance  and  sickly 
sentimentality  which  has  of  late  become  a  merchantable  commodity  with 
a  great  portion  of  the  literary  world." 

About  this  time  appeared  also  some  smaller  pieces,  both  in  prose  and 
verse.  One  of  the  latter  was  called  "  Joseph,  a  Scripture  sketch,  in  three 
parts/'  comprising  more  than  a  thousand  lines  of  blank  verse. 

Near  the  close  of  the  year  1841,  the  editor  of  the  "  Augusta  Mirror" 
says : — "  We  have  received  the  first  part  of  a  tale,  entitled  "  The  Wal- 
singham  Family,  or,  A  Mother's  Ambition,"  by  a  favourite  lady  corres- 


MARY   ELIZABETH  MORAGNE.  415 

pondent.     We  are  much  pleased  with  it,  and  judging  from  past  efforts  of 
the  same  pen,  do  not  hesitate  to  promise  our  readers  a  rich  treat." 

This  was  a  domestic  tale  of  some  length,  apparently  designed  to  illus 
trate  the  folly  and  vanity  of  a  worldly  and  ambitious  mother;  but  although 
the  first  six  chapters  were  in  the  hands  of  the  publisher,  and  the  remainder 
nearly  ready  for  publication,  it  was,  for  the  reasons  before-mentioned, 
entirely  withdrawn,  notwithstanding  the  earnest  solicitation  of  the  editors 
into  whose  hands  it  had  passed. 


THE  HUGUENOT  TOWN. 

CONSTRUCTED  for  purposes  of  personal  convenience,  by  a  simple 
community,  thrown  without  protection  among  strangers,  in  a  country 
yet  almost  savage,  without  money,  and  with  few  facilities  for  build 
ing,  this  town  was  not  distinguished  from  the  other  primitive  settle 
ments  except  by  the  love  of  association  which  it  evinced,  and  the 
strong  marks  of  national  character  which  it  assumed.  The  com 
mon  interest  of  safety,  not  less  than  old  prejudices  in  favour  of 
this  mode  of  life,  seemed  to  warrant  the  propriety  of  combining 
that  strength,  which,  when  divided,  might  not  be  sufficient  to  pro 
tect  their  lives  from  the  Indian's  scalping  knife,  or  their  customs 
and  property  from  the  invasions  of  the  roving,  unsettled,  and  shift 
ing  tide  of  white  population.  It  would  hardly  be  supposed  that  a 
people  who  had  forsaken  their  own  country  for  the  sake  of  these 
hallowed  customs,  could  easily  merge  them  into  the  rude  and  reck 
less  mass  of  provincial  habits, — every  feeling  of  national  love,  every 
principle  of  their  sacred  religion  forbade  it ;  and  the  formidable 
barrier  of  a  foreign  tongue,  whilst  it  shut  them  in  from  the  new 
world,  guarded  the  treasure  they  had  so  much  desired  to  keep  invio 
late.  An  ignorance  of  the  common  methods  of  agriculture  practised 
here,  as  well  as  strong  prejudices  in  favour  of  their  former  habits 
of  living,  prevented  them  from  seizing  with  avidity  on  large  bodies 
of  land  by  individual  possession ;  but  the  site  of  a  town  being 
selected,  a  lot  of  four  acres  was  apportioned  to  every  citizen.  In 
a  short  time  a  hundred  houses  had  risen,  in  a  regularly  compact 
body,  in  the  square  of  which  stood  a  building  superior  in  size  and 
construction  to  the  rest,  which  served  the  threefold  purpose  of 


416  MARY   ELIZABETH   MORAGNE. 

hotel,  cafe*  house,  and  "bureau  des  affaires"  for  the  little  self- 
incorporated  body. 

The  situation  was  not  chosen  with  much  regard  to  beauty  or 
health ;  it  was  in  a  rich  level  valley,  a  few  rods  from  the  river, 
which  they  vainly  supposed  would  furnish  an  easy  access  by  navi 
gation  to  remote  places,  particularly  to  Charleston,  where  many 
of  their  number  remained.  The  simplicity  of  this  idea  is  much  in 
character  with  the  many  impracticable  views  which  a  new  country 
suggests,  and  is  not  more  strange  than  the  belief  that  a  small  town 
ship,  holding  its  own  regulations  and  manners,  could  flourish  in  the 
midst  of  a  wild  country,  independent  of  commercial  relations ;  yet 
time  alone  proved  the  futility  of  both.  The  town  was  soon  busy 
with  the  industry  of  its  tradesmen ;  silk  and  flax  were  manufac 
tured,  whilst  the  cultivators  of  the  soil  were  taxed  with  the  supply 
of  corn  and  wine.  The  hum  of  cheerful  voices  arose  during  the 
week,  mingled  with  the  interdicted  songs  of  praise ;  and  on  the 
sabbath  the  quiet  worshippers,  assembled  in  their  rustic  church, 
listened  with  fervent  response  to  that  faithful  pastor,  who  had 
been  their  spiritual  leader  through  perils  by  sea  and  land,  and 
who  now  directed  their  free,  unrestrained  devotion  to  the  Lord  of 
the  forest. 

Did  I  say  there  was  no  beauty  there  ? — none  but  the  clear  glancing 
of  the  rippling  stream,  and  the  high  arching  of  the  solemn  woods 
above,  wreathing  their  limbs  in  fantastic  forms  against  the  deep 
blue  sky,  and  forming  a  natural  temple,  in  which  each  tree  stood 
up  tall  and  distinct  as  a  polished  shaft  in  the  midst.  The  solemn 
Elm,  and  deep  green  river  Oak  were  there,  sustaining  the  slender 
Larch,  and  twining  their  branches  through  the  light-green  foliage 
of  the  Maple,  which  beautifully  contrasted  the  glittering  notched 
leaves  of  the  fragrant  Gum.  The  woods  still  wave  on  in  melan 
choly  grandeur,  with  the  added  glory  of  near  a  hundred  years ; 
but  they  who  once  lived  and  worshipped  beneath  them — where  are 
they?  Shades  of  my  ancestors — where?  No  crumbling  wreck, 
no  mossy  ruin,  points  the  antiquarian  research  to  the  place  of 
their  sojourn,  or  to  their  last  resting-places !  The  traces  of  a 
narrow  trench,  surrounding  a  square  plat  of  ground,  now  covered 


MARY   ELIZABETH    MORAGNE.  417 

with  the  interlacing  arms  of  hawthorn  and  wild  honeysuckle,  arrest 
the  attention  as  we  are  proceeding  along  a  strongly  beaten  track 
in  the  deep  woods,  and  we  are  assured  that  this  is  the  site  of  the 
"old  French  town,"  which  has  given  its  name  to  the  portion  of 
country  around.  After  some  years,  but  not  till  the  country  was 
established  in  peace,  it  was  gradually  abandoned,  on  account  of 
the  unhealthiness  of  the  situation,  and  because  the  narrowness  of 
its  limits  obliged  the  citizens,  as  they  grew  rich  enough,  to  move 
out  upon  the  hills,  to  which  their  familiarity  with  the  usages  of  the 
country  had  now  rendered  them  less  opposed ;  and  it  must  be  con 
fessed,  also,  that  in  the  course  of  the  Indian  wars,  and  the  scenes 
of  the  revolution  which  followed,  attrition  with  the  more  enter 
prising  and  crafty  had  worn  off  so  much  of  their  native  simplicity 
as  to  admit  the  passion  of  avarice,  which,  by  calling  them  to  a 
more  enlarged  sphere,  greatly  tended  to  the  oblivion  of  their  town, 
though  more  than  half  a  century  had  passed  away  before  they  had 
forfeited  any  of  their  national  characteristics,  or  admitted  any 
corruption  of  their  native  tongue. 


MARY  ELIZABETH  LEE. 


MARY  ELIZABETH  LEE  was  born  on  the  23d  of  March,  1813,  at 
Charleston,  which  her  own  writings  have  contributed  something  to  render 
classic  ground.  Her  parents  were  William  and  Elizabeth  Lee.  Her 
father  practised  the  profession  of  the  law  in  early  life,  and  sat  for  a  period 
as  member  of  the  State  Legislature.  Her  uncle,  Judge  Thomas  Lee, 
was,  for  many  years  and  in  several  respects,  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
citizens  of  South  Carolina.  Several  others  of  her  connexions  were  ar 
dently  devoted  to  intellectual  cultivation,  and  thus  Mary's  lot  fell  in  a 
family  where  every  literary  tendency  was  sure  to  be  kindly  encouraged 
and  happily  developed. 

The  extreme  susceptibility  of  her  feelings  prevented  her  parents  from 
placing  her  at  school  until  after  her  tenth  year.  She  was  then  consigned 
to  the  tuition  of  A.  Bolles,  Esq.,  a  distinguished  teacher  of  young 
ladies  in  Charleston.  Here  she  availed  herself  with  much  diligence 
of  her  advantages,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  a  solid  and  accurate 
education. 

Genius  is  seldom  destitute  of  some  channel  through  which  to  commu 
nicate  its  inspirations  to  the  world.  It  so  happened,  that  when  about 
twenty  years  had  matured  the  mind  of  Mary  Lee,  and  had  stored  it  with 
a  wide  range  of  suggestive  acquisitions,  a  little  periodical  for  youth,  edited 
by  Mrs.  Caroline  Grilman,  had  been  recently  started  in  Charleston,  under 
the  title  of  "  The  Rose  Bud,"  which  soon  after  changed  its  name  to  "  The 
Southern  Rose,"  and  aspired  to  some  rank  of  literary  pretension.  To  the 
pages  of  this  publication  Miss  Lee  contributed  her  earliest  productions, 
prompted  alike  by  the  dictates  of  generous  friendship  and  of  tremulous 
ambition. 

For  a  considerable  time,  the  signature  attached  to  her  pieces  was  the 
modest  and  general  one,  "  A  Friend."  As  they  increased  in  merit,  inqui 
ries  as  to  the  authorship  began  to  be  multiplied,  and  at  last  her  personal 

(418) 


MARY    ELIZABETH    LEE.  419 

relationship  to  them  became  so  well  and  favourably  known,  that  she  dis 
carded  the  timid  disguise,  and  adopted  ever  after  as  a  signature  in  the 
Rose,  the  initials  "  M.  E.  L."  In  all  other  publications,  I  believe,  it  was 
expanded  into  her  full  name. 

Several  brilliant  and  beautiful  effusions  now  continued  to  increase  her 
reputation.  Among  others,  "  The  Lone  Star"  was  admired  by  every  one, 
so  that  for  a  long  time  the  authoress  herself,  when  she  was  mentioned  in 
her  native  city,  received  generally  the  name  of  "  The  Lone  Star."  "  The 
Blind  Negro  Communicant"  gave  her  something  of  a  national  fame,  and 
was  copied  into  religious  and  other  newspapers  in  every  part  of  the 
country. 

Miss  Lee's  incessant  aspirations  after  perfection  in  every  accomplish 
ment,  were  in  nothing  more  signal  than  in  her  studied  efforts  to  acquire 
a  correct  style  of  writing.  For  many  years  she  published  no  poem  before 
exhibiting  it  to  the  literary  friend  of  her  early  youth.  His  criticisms 
were  always  unsparing ;  each  questionable  phrase,  or  halting  line,  or  am 
biguous  rhyme,  was  faithfully  pointed  out,  and  surprising  often  were  the 
patience,  talent,  and  ingenuity,  with  which,  in  availing  herself  of  his 
suggestions,  she  surmounted  every  difficulty  and  remedied  every  defect. 

To  prose  composition  she  devoted  as  much  attention  as  to  poetical. 
Many  prefer  her  writings  in  the  former  department,  and  an  edition  of 
them  would  no  doubt  prove  alike  acceptable  to  the  public  and  honourable 
to  her  name.  Her  style  is  characterized  by  graceful  ease  and  well  chosen 
expressions. 

About  this  time  she  prepared  a  volume  for  the  Massachusetts  School 
Library,  entitled  "  Social  Evenings,  or  Historical  Tales  for  Youth."  The 
publishers  have  declared  it  to  be  one  of  the  most  popular  and  useful  on 
their  list.  The  style  is  at  once  chaste  and  vivacious,  the  topics  are 
selected  from  a  wide  range  of  national  histories,  indicating  a  great  amount 
of  reading,  the  poetical  illustrations,  chiefly  by  the  writer  herself,  are 
numerous  and  beautiful,  the  pathos  is  genuine,  the  characters  are  marked, 
and  the  whole  structure  of  the  work  exhibits  talents  of  a  high  order. 
Eight  evenings  are  supposed  to  be  occupied  by  a  little  youthful  circle  in 
listening  to  an  experienced  friend,  who  reads  to  them  the  successive  tales. 
Each  "  Evening"  is  preceded  by  some  animated,  descriptive  scene,  involv 
ing  throughout  the  book  a  separate  narrative  thread  of  affecting  interest, 
thus  serving  to  vary  the  attention,  to  make  the  necessary  transitions  from 
subject  to  subject,  and  to  combine  the  different  parts  into  one  harmonious 
whole. 

In  the  mean  time,  her  literary  labours  and  successes  were  advancing  in 
every  direction.  As  she  was  desirous  of  maintaining  for  herself  an  honour 
able  independence,  she  supplied  continual  contributions  to  several  widely 
circulated  magazines.  The  journals  and  annuals  for  which  she  wrote 
were  Graham's  Magazine,  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  New  Orleans  Miscellany, 


420  MARY    ELIZABETH    LEE. 

Philadelphia  Courier,  Token,  Gem,  Gift,  Mr.  Whitaker's  Journal,  South 
ern  Literary  Messenger,  and  Orion  Magazine. 

This  gifted  young  lady  died  at  Charleston,  September  23,  1849.  In 
1851  a  volume  of  her  poems  was  published,  with  an  interesting  biogra 
phical  memoir  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Gilman,  from  which  this  brief  notice  has 
been  compiled.  Her  prose  writings  have  never  been  collected. 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  LETTER. 

You  ask  how  I  have  been  occupied,  and  why  I  have  written  so 
little  for  the  pages  of  the  "  Rose."  Well,  I  must  tell  you.  I  have 
forsworn  poetry,  and  excepting  a  "Farewell"  to  it,  which  I  wanted 
to  make  very  pathetic,  have  not  written  a  verse  for  a  long  while. 
As  I  tell  you,  this  "Farewell  to  Poesy"  was  a  thing  I  designed 
should  be  the  last  and  best,  and  accordingly  one  dark  wintry  after 
noon,  I  wrapped  myself  closely  in  cloak  and  boa,  and  slipping  away 
from  the  children,  who  are  always  in  readiness  for  a  walk,  I  pro 
ceeded  to  a  very  lonely  and  romantic  spot  at  some  distance  from 
Homestead,  hoping  that  in  this  deep  solitude  I  might  strike  the 
'harp  of  solemn  sound,'  so  that  it  should  give  out  music  worthy  of 
so  high  a  theme.  But  in  vain  the  wind  moaned  in  most  doleful 
cadence,  in  vain  the  waterfall  sang  its  tireless  song,  in  vain  the  owl 
in  an  adjacent  wood  croaked  ever  and  anon  ;  I  could  not  attune  my 
spirit  aright.  My  rhymes  jingled  readily  enough,  but  I  could  not 
win  "  the  spark  of  heaven  to  tremble  down  the  wire,"  and  after 
being  seated  for  a  full  hour  over  a  wet  log,  which  produced,  as  you 
may  suppose,  a  most  uncommon  rheumatism,  I  was  startled  by 
*****,  who  came  to  inquire  of  my  poetical  success.  With  great 
animation  I  read  my  several  verses,  each  ending  with  these  em 
phatic  lines, 

I  vow  that  I  no  more  will  be 

A  captive  to  sweet  poesy ; 

which  lines,  to  my  surprise,  produced  at  each  repetition  a  most 
unrestrained  burst  of  laughter,  and  were  at  last  set  to  a  most  ridi 
culous  tune,  which  was  sung  during  our  long  walk  homeward,  with 
the  most  provoking  perseverance,  till  I  too  was  compelled  to  laugh 
at  my  own  hard-earned  composition.  Now  you  see  I  have  let  you 


MARY    ELIZABETH    LEE.  421 

into  one  of  the  trials  of  the  scribbling  class,  and  perhaps  it  may 
take  away  any  disposition  which  you  may  sometimes  feel  towards 
courting  the  gentle  Muse.  I  wanted  so  much  to  produce  that 
Farewell,  before  I  "  furled  my  sail,  to  try  no  more  the  unsteady 
breath  of  favour;"  and  now  I  am  resolved  not  to  give  up  the  ship, 
but  to  hold  on,  so  long  as  the  storm  of  public  opinion  does  not 
beat  too  hard.  Don't  you  think  I  had  better  continue,  confining 
myself  to  such  innocent,  simple  subjects,  as  "  Lines  to  the  Owner 
of  an  Album,"  "  Stanzas  to  E.  C.,"  "  Sonnet  to  the  Evening  Star," 
and  so  on  ?  Such  lines  can  do  no  mischief,  you  know,  to  the  cause 
of  poetry. 

But  I  promised  to  tell  what  I  was  doing,  and  you  will  be  alarmed 
to  hear,  that  I  am  drinking,  with  great  gout,  at  the  fount  of  philo 
sophy.  To  be  sure,  as  yet  my  progress  has  been  but  slow,  and  the 
draught  not  very  deep,  for  I  have  taken  in  but  parts  of  Doctor 
Adams's  Moral  Philosophy,  and  fear  to  think  when  I  shall  be  pos 
sessed  of  the  whole.  Have  you  read  the  work  ?  Cousin  S.  thinks 
very  well  of  it.  If  you  want  a  treat  in  natural  philosophy,  I  can 
recommend  to  your  perusal  "Euler's  Letters,"  which  form  two 
volumes  of  that  excellent  publication,  "  The  Family  Library." 
The  subjects  are  handled  with  a  clearness  and  conciseness  which 
pleased  me  greatly ;  and  perhaps  like  me,  and  I  suspect  women  in 
general,  you  do  not  like  those  huge  tomes,  that  always  seem  to 
smell  of  poppies,  whenever  I  venture  so  far  as  to  open  them.  I 
like  roast  pig  when  stuffed  with  raisins  and  currants,  for  so  I 
remember  eating  it  some  years  ago  at  a  friend's  house  ;  and  though 
a  homely  simile,  I  would  compare  philosophy  with  this  heavy,  sub 
stantial  dish,  and  can  truly  say  I  never  enjoy  it  unless  well  stocked 
with  some  apropos  anecdote ;  some  short  flight  of  fancy ;  some 
occasionally  wild  conjecture. 

With  the  word  conjecture,  Dick's  Works  are  brought  to  my  mind, 
and  I  want  you  to  read  them  also.  I  am  now  busy  with  his 
"Philosophy  of  Religion,"  a  work  which,  on  account  of  its  being 
a  little  startling,  interests  me  exceedingly.  What  do  you  think 
of  him  when  I  tell  you  that  he  says,  "  it  is  a  pleasing  fancy  to 
suppose  that  a  city  lit  with  gas  lights,  would  present  the  same 


422  MARY    ELIZABETH    LEE. 

appearance  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  moon,  which  that  satellite's 
luminous  spots  display  to  us."  Don't  you  think  this  is  but  a  pleas 
ing  fancy,  with  no  reality  ?  Cousin  S.  has  a  first-rate  microscope ; 
also  an  excellent  telescope,  through  which  we  have  been  for  several 
evenings  holding  pleasant  intercourse  with  Venus  and  Jupiter. 
The  queen  of  beauty  smiled  on  us  with  a  most  beaming  smile,  but 
Jupiter,  vexed  at  being  spied  at,  would  only  show  three  moons, 
and  although  we  put  on  one  power  after  another,  would  not  show 
the  fourth,  much  as  we  desired  it.  However,  we  will  take  another 
peep  to-night,  and  hope  to  find  him  better  disposed.  Don't  you 
love  to  look  at  the  stars  ?  I  do.  What  an  idea  of  happiness  a 
star  conveys  !  With  such  a  boundless  space  to  move  in ;  such  an 
unmeasured  distance  before  it,  and  such  a  long  existence  to  live 
through !  A  star,  with  proper  study,  will  furnish  abundant  food 
to  the  mind,  and  the  heart  also.  Do  you  make  the  evening  star 
your  heart-study  as  you  promised,  and  does  it  bring  me  any  nearer 
to  you  every  evening  ?  I  hope  so,  or  you  have  proved  a  forgetful 
friend. 


MARY  J.  WINDIE. 


ALTHOUGH  distinguished  for  her  statesmen  and  warriors,  the  "  diamond 
State"  of  Delaware  has  produced  but  few  sons  or  daughters  who  have 
attained  to  eminence  or  achieved  fame  in  the  literary  arena.  This  is  an 
anomaly  by  no  means  easy  of  explanation,  since  there  are  few  portions  of 
our  Union  better  educated,  and  no  one  which  appreciates  more  highly 
literary  distinction  than  the  upper  portion  of  Delaware. 

The  young  lady,  however,  whose  name  stands  at  the  head  of  this  slight 
memoir,  bids  fair  to  introduce  her  native  State  to  worthy  companionship 
in  the  world  of  letters  with  some  of  her  hitherto  more  highly  favoured 
sisters. 

Mary  Jane  Windle  was  born  at  Wilmington,  February  16th,  1825,  of 
respectable  parents,  but  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  her  father  when  in 
early  infancy.  Being  thus  deprived  of  an  affectionate  husband,  the  mother 
of  Miss  Windle,  with  an  interesting  and  helpless  family,  was  thrown  upon 
the  world,  dependent  entirely  upon  her  individual  exertions  for  support. 
The  subject  of  our  sketch  early  evinced  a  fondness  for  letters,  and  in  spite 
of  ill  health  and  the  difficulties  of  her  position,  made  herself  well  acquainted 
with  modern  polite  literature.  Of  a  romantic,  confiding  disposition,  great 
sweetness  of  temper,  and  refinement  of  manner,  Miss  Windle  has  attached 
to  herself  "  troops  of  friends,"  who  have  watched  with  interest  her  pro 
gress  in  public  favour. 

Miss  Windle' s  literary  career  was  commenced,  as  is  usually  the  case  in 
this  country,  by  contributions  to  the  public  press.  Her  communications, 
both  prose  and  poetical,  attracted  attention  at  once,  and  indicated  the 
author  to  be  one  of  no  common  or  ordinary  mind.  As  her  powers 
expanded  and  became  more  developed,  her  writings  likewise  increased  in 
variety  and  beauty  of  incident,  until  at  length  she  drew  to  herself  the 
favourable  notice  of  a  generous  publisher,  who  transferred  her  talents  to 
the  pages  of  one  of  those  splendid  monthly  periodicals  which  so  peculiarly 
distinguish  the  present  literature  of  the  country. 

(423) 


424  MARY  J.    WINDLE. 

Here,  among  the  very  elite  of  our  writers,  Miss  Windle  took  a  promi 
nent  stand,  and  proved  herself  capable  of  competing  with  the  best  of  them. 
So  marked  was  the  public  approbation — so  great  the  desire  to  possess  the 
interesting  stories  which  monthly  flowed  from  her  graceful  pen,  that  she 
was  prevailed  upon  to  reprint  in  book  form  a  selection  of  her  longer 
sketches. 

The  volume  appeared  during  the  year  1850,  and  an  edition  of  several 
thousand  copies  was  so  soon  disposed  of,  that  another  and  larger  edition  is 
now  in  press. 

Miss  Windle's  merits  as  a  writer  are  great  and  varied.  Purity  of  taste, 
much  command  of  language,  and  fascinating  descriptive  powers,  charac 
terize  her  productions. 

Feminine  grace  and  modesty  are  likewise  leading  features ;  and  no  one 
can  lay  down  even  the  slightest  of  her  sketches  without  the  full  con 
viction  that  it  could  only  proceed  from  the  pen  of  a  refined  and  accom 
plished  lady. 

Though  naturally  of  feeble  constitution,  and  almost  a  martyr  to  ill 
health,  Miss  Windle,  in  attending  to  literary  pursuits,  by  no  means 
neglects  her  duties  to  that  society  of  which  she  is  at  once  a  member  and 
an  ornament. 

Possessed,  in  addition  to  her  other  accomplishments,  of  fine  conversa 
tional  ability,  she  renders  her  associations  not  only  agreeable,  but  most 
useful ;  and  it  is  to  be  strongly  desired,  that  she  may  be  spared  to  her 
friends  long  enough  to  fulfil  the  promise  of  a  career  so  brilliantly 
commenced. 

ALICE  HEATH'S  INTERVIEW  WITH  CROMWELL. 

AT  a  late  hour  of  the  night,  two  persons  were  winding  their  way  to 
the  palace  of  Whitehall.  One  was  an  individual  of  the  male  sex, 
in  whom  might  have  been  seen,  even  through  the  gloom,  a  polished 
and  dignified  bearing,  which,  together  with  his  dress — though  of 
the  Puritanic  order — declared  him  a  gentleman  of  more  than  ordi 
nary  rank.  His  companion  was  a  delicate  woman,  evidently  like 
himself  of  the  most  genteel  class,  but  attired  in  the  simplest  and 
plainest  walking  costume  of  the  times.  She  leaned  on  his  arm 
with  much  appearance  of  womanly  trust,  although  there  was  an 
air  of  self-confidence  in  her  step,  suggesting  the  idea  of  one  capable 
of  acting  alone  on  occasion  of  emergency,  and  a  striking  yet  per 
fectly  feminine  dignity  presiding  over  her  whole  aspect. 

"  I  have  counselled  your  visiting  him  at  this  late  hour,"  said 
the  gentleman,  "  because,  as  the  only  hope  lies  in  striking  terror 


MARY  J.    WINDLE.  425 

into  his  conscience,  the  purpose  may  be  best  answered  in  the  soli 
tude  and  silence  of  a  season  like  this.  Conscience  is  a  coward  in 
the  daylight,  but  darkness  and  night  generally  give  her  courage 
to  assert  her  power." 

"  True,  William,"  replied  Alice  Heath  (for  she  it  was,  and  her 
companion,  as  the  reader  is  aware  by  this  time,  was  her  husband), 
"  true — but  alas  !  I  fear  for  the  success  of  my  visit ;  the  individual 
of  whom  we  are  speaking  deceives  himself  no  less  than  others,  and 
therefore  to  him  she  is  a  coward  at  all  times.  Hast  thou  not  read 
what  my  poor  dead  grandfather's  old  acquaintance  has  written  about 
a  man's  l  making  such  a  sinner  of  his  conscience  as  to  believe  his 
own  lies?' ' 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  the  passage,  my  Alice,  and,  ever  correct 
in  your  judgment,  you  have  penetrated  rightly  into  the  singular 
character  we  are  alluding  to.  I  wot  it  were  hard  for  himself  to 
say  how  far  he  has  been  actuated  by  pure,  and  how  far  by  ambitious 
motives,  in  the  hand  he  has  had  in  the  sentence  of  the  king.  Never 
theless,  you  would  believe  his  conscience  to  be  not  altogether  dead, 
had  you  seen  him  tremble  and  grow  pale  yesterday  in  the  Court, 
during  the  reading  of  the  warrant  (which,  by  the  way,  he  had 
worded  and  written  with  his  own  hands),  when  Charles  Stuart  raised 
his  eyes  and  looked  upon  him  as  if  to  imply  that  he  knew  him  for 
the  instigator,  and  no  unselfish  one,  either,  of  his  doom.  The 
emotion  he  then  testified,  it  was,  which  led  me  to  hope  he  may  yet 
be  operated  upon  to  prevent  the  fatal  judgment  from  taking  effect. 
It  is  true,  Charles  is  a  traitor,  and  I  cannot  regret  that,  in  being 
arraigned  and  tried,  an  example  has  been  made  of  him.  But 
having  from  the  first  anticipated  this  result,  except  for  your  father, 
Alice,  I  would  have  had  no  part  in  the  matter,  being  entirely 
opposed  to  the  shedding  of  his  blood.  All  ends  which  his  death 
can  accomplish  have  already  been  answered ;  and  I  devoutly  pray 
that  the  effort  your  gentle  heart  is  now  about  to  make  for  the 
saving  of  his  life,  may  be  blessed  in  procuring  that  merciful 
result." 

At  this  moment  they  paused  before  the  magnificent  structure, 
known  as  the  Palace  of  Whitehall,  and  applied  for  admission. 

54 


426  MARY   J.    WINDLE. 

Vacated  some  time  since  by  the  king,  it  was  now  occupied  by  his 
rival  in  power,  the  aspiring  Cromwell ;  and  although  the  hour  was 
so  late,  the  vast  pile  was  still  illuminated.  Having  gained  speedy 
access  to  the  main  building,  the  visitors  were  admitted  by  a  servant 
in  the  gorgeous  livery  of  the  fallen  monarch.  Heath  requested  to 
be  shown  to  an  ante-room,  while  Alice  solicited  to  be  conducted 
without  previous  announcement  to  the  presence  of  his  master. 
After  a  moment's  hesitation  on  the  part  of  the  servant,  which, 
however,  was  quickly  overcome  by  her  persuasive  manner,  he  con 
ducted  her  through  various  spacious  halls,  and  up  numerous  flights 
of  stairs,  till,  pausing  suddenly  before  the  door  of  a  chamber,  he 
knocked  gently.  As  they  waited  for  an  answer,  the  accents  of 
prayer  were  distinctly  audible.  They  were  desired  to  enter ;  the 
servant  threw  open  the  door,  simply  announcing  a  lady.  Alice 
entered,  and  found  herself  alone  with  Cromwell. 

The  apartment  was  an  ante-room  attached  to  the  spacious  bed 
chamber  formerly  belonging  to  the  king.  It  was  luxuriously  fur 
nished  with  all  the  appliances  of  ease  and  elegance  suitable  to  a 
royal  withdrawing  room.  Tables  and  chairs  of  rose-wood,  richly 
inlaid  with  ivory  and  mother-of-pearl,  were  arranged  in  order 
around  the  room ;  magnificent  vases  of  porcelain  decorated  the 
mantel-piece ;  statues  from  the  chisel  of  Michael  Angelo  stood  in 
the  niches  ;  and  pictures  in  gorgeous  frames  hung  upon  the  walls. 

There,  near  a  table,  on  which  burned  a  single-shaded  lamp, 
standing  upright,  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  from  which  he  had 
just  been  interrupted,  stood  the  occupant.  For  an  instant,  as  she 
lingered  near  the  door,  and  looked  upon  his  figure,  which  bore  so 
strongly  the  impress  of  power,  and  felt  that  on  his  word  hung  the 
fate  of  him  for  whom  she  had  come  to  plead,  she  already  feared 
for  the  success  of  her  mission,  and  would  fain  almost  have  retracted 
her  visit.  But  remembering  the  accents  of  prayer  she  had  heard 
while  waiting  without,  she  considered  that  her  purposed  appeal 
was  to  the  conscience  of  one  whom  she  had  just  surprised,  as  it 
were,  in  the  presence  of  his  Maker,  and  took  courage  to  advance. 

"  May  I  pray  thee  to  approach  and  be  seated,  madam,  and 
unfold  the  object  of  this  visit?"  said  Cromwell,  in  a  thick,  rapid 


MARY   J.    WINDLE.  427 

utterance,  the  result  of  his  surprise,  as  he  waved  his  visiter  to  a 
chair.  "At  that  distance,  and  by  this  light,  I  can  hardly  dis 
tinguish  the  features  of  the  lady  who  so  inopportunely  and  uncere 
moniously  honours  me  with  her  presence." 

Immediately  advancing,  she  threw  back  her  hood,  and  oifering 
him  her  hand,  said,  "It  is  Alice  Heath,  the  daughter  of  your 
friend,  General  Lisle." 

Cromwell's  rugged  countenance  expressed  the  utmost  surprise, 
as  he  awkwardly  strove  to  assume  a  courtesy  foreign  to  his  man 
ner,  and  exchange  his  first  ungracious  greeting  for  something  of  a 
more  cordial  welcome. 

With  exceeding  tact,  Alice  hastened  to  relieve  his  embarrass 
ment,  by  falling  back  into  the  chair  he  had  offered,  and  at  once 
declaring  the  purpose  of  her  visit. 

"General  Cromwell,"  she  began,  in  a  voice  sweetly  distinct, 
"  you  stand  high  in  the  eyes  of  man,  not  only  as  a  patriot,  but  a 
strict  and  conscientious  servant  of  the  Most  High.  As  such,  you 
have  been  the  main  instrument  in  procuring  the  doom  now  hanging 
in  awful  expectation  over  the  head  of  him  who  once  tenanted,  in 
the  same  splendour  that  now  surrounds  yourself,  the  building  in 
which  I  find  you.  Methinks  his  vacation  of  these  princely  pre 
mises,  and  your  succession  thereunto,  renders  you  scarcely  capable 
of  being  a  disinterested  advocate  for  his  death — since,  by  it,  you 
become  successor  to  all  the  pomp  and  power  formerly  his.  Have 
you  asked  yourself  the  question  whether  no  motives  of  self-ag 
grandizement  have  tainted  this  deed  of  patriotism,  or  sullied  this 
act  of  religion  ?" 

"Your  language  is  unwarrantable  and  unbecoming,  madam," 
said  Cromwell,  deadly  pale  and  trembling  violently;  "it  is 
written — " 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Alice,  interrupting  him;  "you  think  it  un- 
courteous  and  even  impertinent  that  I  should  intrude  upon  you  with 
a  question  such  as  I  but  now  addressed  to  you.  But,  General 
Cromwell,  a  human  life  is  at  stake,  and  that  the  life  of  no  ordinary 
being,  but  the  descendant  of  a  race  of  kings.  Nay,  hear  me  out, 
sir,  I  beg  of  you.  Charles  Stuart  is  about  to  die  an  awful  and  a 


428  MARY   J.    WINDLE. 

violent  death ;  your  voice  has  condemned  him — your  voice  can  yet 
save  him.  If  it  be  your  country's  weal  that  you  desire,  that  object 
has  been  already  sufficiently  answered  by  the  example  of  his  trial ; 
or,  if  it  is  to  further  the  cause  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts  that  you  place 
yourself  at  the  head  of  Britain  in  his  place,  be  assured  that  he  who 
would  assert  his  power  by  surrounding  himself  with  a  pomp  like 
this,  is  no  delegate  of  One  who  commissioned  Moses  to  lead  his 
people  through  the  wilderness,  a  sharer  in  the  common  lot,  and  a 
houseless  wanderer  like  themselves.  Bethink  you,  therefore,  what 
must  be  the  doom  of  him,  who — for  the  sake  of  ambition  and  pride 
— in  order  that  he  might  for  the  brief  space  of  his  life  enjoy  luxury 
and  power — under  the  borrowed  name,  too,  of  that  God  who  views 
the  act  with  horror  and  detestation — stains  his  hands  with  parri 
cidal  blood.  Yes,  General  Cromwell,  for  thy  own  soul's,  if  not  for 
mercy's  sake,  I  entreat  thee,  in  whom  alone  lies  the  power,  to  cause 
Charles  Stuart's  sentence  to  be  remitted." 

After  a  few  moments'  hesitation,  during  which  Alice  looked  in 
his  face  with  the  deepest  anxiety,  and  awaited  his  answer,  he  said, 
"  Go  to,  young  woman,  who  presurnest  to  interfere  between  a  judge 
raised  up  for  the  redemption  of  England,  and  a  traitor  king,  whom 
the  Lord  hath  permitted  to  be  condemned  to  the  axe.  As  my  soul 
liveth,  and  as  He  liveth,  who  will  one  day  make  me  a  ruler  in  Israel, 
thou  hast  more  than  the  vanity  of  thy  sex,  in  hoping  by  thy  foolish 
speech  to  move  me  to  lift  up  my  hand  against  the  decree  of  the 
Almighty.  Truly—" 

"Nay,  General  Cromwell,"  said  Alice,  interrupting  him,  as  soon 
as  she  perceived  he  was  about  to  enter  into  one  of  his  lengthy  and 
pointless  harangues,  "  nay,  you  evade  the  matter  both  with  me  and 
with  the  conscience  whose  workings  I  have  for  the  last  few  moments 
beheld  in  the  disorder  of  your  frame.  Have  its  pleadings — for  to 
them  I  look  and  not  to  any  eloquence  of  mine  own — been  of  no 
avail  ?  Will  it  please  you  to  do  aught  for  the  king  ?" 

"Young  lady,"  replied  Cromwell,  bursting  into  tears,  which  he 
was  occasionally  wont  to  do,  "  a  man  like  me,  who  is  called  to  per 
form  great  acts  in  Israel,  had  need  to  be  immovable  to  feelings  of 
human  charities.  Think  you  not  it  is  painful  to  our  mortal  sym- 


MARY  J.   WINDLE.  429 

pathies  to  be  called  upon  to  execute  the  righteous  judgments  of 
Heaven,  while  we  are  yet  in  the  body !  And  think  you  when 
we  must  remove  some  prime  tyrant  that  the  instruments  of  his 
removal  can  at  all  times  view  their  part  in  his  punishment  with 
unshaken  nerves  ?  Must  they  not  even  at  times  doubt  the  inspira 
tion  under  which  they  have  felt  and  acted  ?  Must  they  not  occa 
sionally  question  the  origin  of  that  strong  impulse  which  appears 
the  inward  answer  to  prayer  for  direction  under  heavenly  difficul 
ties,  and,  in  their  disturbed  apprehensions,  confuse  even  the  re 
sponses  of  truth  with  the  strong  delusions  of  Satan  ?  Would  that 
the  Lord  would  harden  my  heart  even  as  he  hardened  that  of— 

"  Stop,  sir,"  said  Alice,  again  interrupting  him  ere  his  softened 
mood  should  have  passed  away,  "utter  not  such  a  sacrilegious 
wish.  Why  are  the  kindly  sympathies  which  you  describe  implanted 
in  your  bosom,  unless  it  be  to  prevent  your  ambition  from  stifling 
your  humanity  ?  The  rather  encourage  them,  and  save  Charles 
Stuart.  Let  your  mind  dwell  upon  the  many  traits  of  nobleness 
in  his  character  which  might  be  mentioned  with  enthusiasm,  ay, 
and  with  sorrow,  too,  that  they  should  be  thus  sacrificed." 

"  The  Most  High,  young  woman,  will  have  no  fainters  in  spirit 
in  his  service — none  who  turn  back  from  Mount  Gilead  for  fear  of 
the  Amalekites.  To  be  brief — it  waxes  late  ;  to  discuss  this  topic- 
longer  is  but  to  distress  us  both.  Charles  Stuart  must  die — the 
mouth  of  the  Lord  hath  spoken  it." 

As  he  spoke,  he  bowed  with  a  determined  but  respectful  reve 
rence,  and  when  he  lifted  up  his  head,  the  expression  of  his  fea 
tures  told  Alice  that  the  doom  of  the  king  was  irrevocably  fixed. 

"  I  see  there  is  no  hope,"  said  she,  with  a  deep  sigh,  as  Crom 
well  spoke  these  words  in  a  tone  of  decision  which  left  her  no  fur 
ther  encouragement,  and  with  a  brevity  so  unusual  to  him.  Nor 
was  his  hint  to  close  the  interview  lost  upon  her.  "No  hope!" 
she  repeated,  drawing  back.  "  I  leave  you,  then,  inexorable  man 
of  iron,  and  may  you  not  thus  plead  in  vain  for  mercy  at  the  bar 
of  God !" 

So  saying,  she  turned  and  rejoined  her  husband,  who  remained 
in  waiting  for  her :  they  returned  together  to  Lisle's  house. 


FRANCES  B.  M.  BROTHERSON. 

FRANCES  BENNETT  BROTHERSON  was  born  at  Elmira,  New  York,  Sept. 
22d,  1816.  She  was  the  only  daughter  of  Matthew  McReynolds,  Esq., 
merchant,  of  that  place.  In  1833,  she  was  married  to  P.  R.  K.  Brother- 
son,  Esq. ;  and  removed  to  Cadiz,  Ohio,  in  1836,  where  she  resided  until 
the  year  1850.  During  the  past  year  she  has  resided  in  the  very  beauti 
ful  and  picturesque  city  of  Peoria,  Illinois. 

Mrs.  Brotherson  has  written  numerous  articles  both  in  prose  and  verse, 
which  have  appeared  chiefly  in  the  Western  periodicals.  From  one  of 
these,  the  following  piece  is  selected. 

THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

IT  was  the  last  evening  in  the  cold  and  cheerless  month  of  De 
cember,  and  the  winter  king  had  asserted  and  established  his  claims 
in  the  most  despotic  manner,  binding  in  icy  chains  every  streamlet 
and  fountain,  and  crushing  under  his  feet  nature's  fairest  works. 
The  stars  looked  down  from  their  high  dwelling-place,  like  senti 
nels  upon  the  outposts  of  Heaven,  keeping  watch  and  ward,  lest 
something  less  true  and  bright  than  they  themselves  were,  should 
enter  within  its  holy  precincts ;  and  the  wind  howled  sadly  around, 
breathing  a  requiem  for  the  glories  which  had  followed  each  other 
in  brief  succession,  during  the  past  year,  seeming  to  tell,  in  plain 
tive  tones,  that  they  were  gone,  for  ever  gone  ! 

On  such  a  night  did  they,  for  whom  the  household  fire  glowed 
brightly,  bless  their  happy,  enviable  lot,  and  sigh,  as  they  remem 
bered  that  hundreds  were  suffering — nay,  were  dying  for  want  of  a 
single  spark  of  that  genial  element,  to  impart  feeling  and  life  to 

(430) 


FRANCES   B.    M.    BROTHERSON.  431 

their  rigid  limbs.  Home's  every  comfort  could  not  shut  out  the 
haunting  vision  of  that  disconsolate  mother,  who  once  hung  over  a 
dying  child,  amid  dreary  darkness,  without  one  ray  of  light  to  give 
back  the  features  she  had  loved  to  gaze  upon  in  other  and  happier 
days.  God  help  the  poor,  when  December's  snows  are  upon  the 
earth ! 

On  such  a  night  as  this,  the  Old  and  New  Year  met — both 
struggling  for  supremacy — each  unwilling  to  accord  to  the  other 
unlimited  sway. 

"  I  have  been,  and  I  am  yet  a  monarch,"  said  the  Old  Year;  "  one, 
too,  whose  subjects  are  almost  countless.  You  may  not  number  the 
tongues  which  have  sung  of  my  exploits ;  and  the  length  of  days 
which  has  been  mine  has  given  me  a  knowledge  and  wisdom,  of 
which  thou  knowest  nothing.  What  ?  resign  my  throne  to  thee, 
thou  stripling  !  never  !  !"  and  echo  caught  up  the  last  word  as  it 
fell,  and  "  never"  reverberated  throughout  the  universe. 

"  Truly,"  replied  the  New  Year,  "thy  deeds  have  rendered  thee 
immortal,  and  Time  that  bears  all  things  down  on  his  vast  bosom, 
shall  transmit  thy  name  to  generations  yet  to  come ;  but  now,  thou 
art  old  and  enfeebled,  and  thy  sceptre  trembles  in  thy  hand.  Thy 
Spring  and  Summer,  nay,  the  Autumn  of  thy  days  are  gone  for 
ever,  while  mine  are  yet  to  come.  Would  it  not  be  wise  then,  for 
thee  to  retire  from  the  active  scenes  of  life,  giving  the  power  to 
one  whose  strength  will  be  sufficient  for  the  future,  be  what  it  may." 

"  Strength  !"  and  the  Old  Year  drew  his  form  up  to  its  loftiest 
height — "  am  I  not  strong  ?  The  blood  may  not  course  through 
my  veins  as  rapidly  as  thine,  but  I  tell  thee,  the  current  is  deeper. 
Strength !  why  this  arm  can  boast  sinews  and  muscles  that  might, 
like  the  fancied  lever  of  Archimedes,  raise  the  world.  Look  upon 
my  eye — does  it  not  tell  that  the  fire  of  my  soul  burns  brightly 
still  ?  Ay,  youth — tells  it  not  that  Time  hath  no  power  over  such 
light — that  lie  does  not  quench  it?" 

"  Thou  art  vain,  Old  Year.  Pause  one  moment  and  look  back 
— dost  thou  not  remember  when  thou  wert  as  I  am  now,  in  Life's 
glowing  spring-time,  and  when  one  like  thee  clung  to  his  power, 
unwilling  to  resign  to  thee  thy  rightful  claims.  His  course  was 


43'2  FRANCES    B.    M.    BROTHERSON. 

over ;  he  had  been  a  king  during  his  appointed  time,  and  accord 
ing  to  the  laws  of  succession,  thy  hour  of  triumph  drew  near.  Go 
back  to  that  hour — rememberest  thou  not  how  unreasonable  thou 
deemed  thy  predecessor  ?  Now,  tell  me  if  thou  wilt  yet  madly 
cling  to  a  sceptre,  which  must  pass  from  thee." 

A  shade  of  sadness  rested  on  the  face  of  the  Qld  Year,  for 
those  moments  passed  in  bright  array  before  him.  The  guardian 
angel  of  the  Years  marked  the  shadow,  and  caught  the  sigh  that 
escaped  from  his  troubled  breast. 

"  Why  art  thou  sorrowful,  oh  Forty-Nine  ?"  said  he. 

"Ah,"  he  replied,  "I  feel  that  my  glory  is  over.  A  young 
aspirant  presents  his  claims  to  my  throne,  and  the  truth  bursts 
upon  me,  that  they  are  equitable  and  right.  Alas  !  alas  !  must 
I  pass  away  and  be  forgotten  ?  must  the  beauties  and  glories  that 
I  have  lavished  upon  the  earth  vanish  for  ever !" 

"  Be  comforted,"  said  the  Angel,  "  be  of  good  cheer  !  thou  shalt 
have  power,  and  life,  equal  to  thy  successor,  but  it  shall  be  in  a 
different  realm.  I  will  remove  thee  from  the  land  of  Hope  to  that 
of  Memory.  There  shalt  thou  be  a  monarch ;  thy  subjects  as 
numerous  as  they  now  are,  and  with  its  placid  moonlight  and  fade 
less  verdure  around  thy  path,  thou  shalt  live  for  ever." 

Turning  to  the  New  Year,  the  Angel  bade  him  ascend  the  throne 
of  nature,  giving  him  sage  counsel  and  advice,  as  to  his  future 
course.  A  monarch's  feelings  stole  over  him,  and  with  a  new  lustre 
in  his  eyes,  and  with  the  bright  sunshine  of  Hope  streaming  around 
him,  he  "went  on  his  way  rejoicing." 

A  tranquil  smile  rested  on  the  face  of  the  Old  Year,  as  he  slowly 
tied  on  his  sandals,  equipping  himself  for  his  journey.  He  cast 
one  long,  lingering  look  behind  him,  and  then  with  his  staff  in  his 
hand,  and  with  a  cheerful  soul  and  trusting  heart,  departed.  The 
blessed  angel  was  at  his  side,  uttering  words  of  love  and  comfort, 
nor  paused  he  until  the  land  of  Memory  met  his  eyes,  fairer  than 
his  wildest  imaginings  had  ever  portrayed. 

THE    END. 

E.    B.    HEARS,    STEREOTYPER.  C.    SHERMAN,    PRINTER. 


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